


Saturday Night

by antlungs



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Violence, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Gay Richie Tozier, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Past Domestic Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Saturday Night Live - Freeform, Slow Burn, Stanley Uris Lives, Updates on Sundays, its adult reddie and benverly, theyre inherently slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2020-10-31 19:57:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 40,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20800367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antlungs/pseuds/antlungs
Summary: Richie Tozier is a rising star in the comedy world, and his ever-growing fame brings him into the periphery of the other members of the Lucky Seven, who cannot help but wonder why his face is so familiar when they don't recall ever having seen him before.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> im a little nervous to be posting this because its the First Ever Fic ive written for this fandom and ngl i usually do at least three character studies that never see the light of day before im comfortable putting smth out there but ig im gonna start living life on the edge now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seven people in seven cities across the United States, all leading completely different lives - one a fashion mogul, one a writer, one an accountant, one an architect. On one otherwise uneventful day in summer, six of those people's lives intersect with that of the seventh, each in some small way or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have barely any idea where im going with this but heres hoping i stick to it lol
> 
> after this the update schedule will be weekend centric, i just didnt wanna wait any longer to post this first chapter tbh

Eddie Kaspbrak is on bed-rest, and he’s absolutely miserable. He knows he shouldn’t be – he tries to remind himself that he has a good, well-paying job, a stable living situation, and a wife who cares about his well-being, so realistically, he has nothing to be miserable _about_. But Eddie has always felt this way about being on bed-rest; not being able to do anything makes him antsy, and antsy is not a good look for him. Despite the limited nature of his memories from his childhood, he has a feeling this was always the case, which is both reassuring and not.

At least on bed-rest, Eddie muses, Myra gives him some space. He sighs as he watches the face of Seth Meyers come into view, signalling that the _Weekend Update_ segment of _Saturday Night Live_ has begun; if Myra were here, she would never allow him to watch it, despite the fact that he finds it very entertaining. She says that he’s above “that low-brow humour,” and that subjects such as those discussed on _Saturday Night Live_ are simply too shocking for his frail heart.

A character that Eddie doesn’t think he’s seen before rolls into view in an office chair, catching himself on the desk just in time to avoid ramming into Seth, cupping his ring-adorned hands over his mouth, running his tongue over his teeth before greeting Seth and the audience in a soft falsetto.

As the bit goes on – Seth asking “Stefon the City Correspondent” for St Patrick’s Day destinations and receiving highly inappropriate (though, Eddie must admit, quite funny) nonsense about old women who look like raisins and clubs opened at gunpoint in return – Eddie is overtaken by the nagging feeling that he knows the face of the actor playing Stefon, that he’s seen it somewhere before – perhaps not exactly as it is now, but quite similar, or at the very least not different enough to be unrecognisable. How he’s so sure, he couldn’t say; it’s just such a strong feeling he cannot ignore it, no matter how hard he tries to force himself to focus on what he’s watching.

Another noteworthy point is that the actor seems to be having trouble keeping a straight face at times. Eddie is sure that there’s a reason behind this, but something about the act of the man breaking character only adds to how familiar the man seems – once again, for reasons Eddie can’t explain.

At one point, Stefon pulls a pin out of his pocket and presents it to Seth, who pins it to his lapel and reads the phrase printed on it, _Kiss Me, I’m Irish_, aloud. Stefon replies, “If you insist,” before grabbing Seth and mashing his mouth against Seth’s. The kiss goes on for two, three, five, seven, nine seconds; someone in the audience wolf whistles. Eddie seethes openly, though for what reason he has no clue.

Eddie wouldn’t call himself a homophobe, or anything in that vein. He thinks there’s nothing wrong with love as long as it’s true and pure. But at the sight of the actor (who he _still could not place_) kissing Seth Meyers, he feels full to the brim with some bitter, sharp emotion he can’t name. Jealousy? (_Longing?_ Whispers the same part of his brain that insisted he knew that face.) Whatever it is, it’s nigh overwhelming; Eddie can’t remember the last time he _felt_ so strongly, without any impediment, and this revelation startles him so badly that he reaches for the remote at his bedside and changes the channel.

He isn’t sure what came over him just then. Already, though, the feeling is starting to fade, so he comforts himself with the thought that perhaps with time he can simply put the entire ordeal out of his mind, wash his hands of it and forget it as though it never were in the first place.

* * *

“And that’s a wrap!”

Richie Tozier has to consciously keep himself from sagging to the floor at those words. He twists one of the various rings adorning his fingers and adjusts his printed sleeves nervously, some strange feeling making a home in his chest. He’s startled back to reality by a hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

“Don’t know how much practice you’ve had, Richie, but you’re not as bad a kisser as I expected,” Seth says cheerfully, punctuating his sentence with a wink.

Richie grins back at him. “Careful, there, sounds like you might be in danger of falling in love with the Trashmouth,” Richie says coyly. “Think of your wife, Meyers; she’d be crushed.”

Seth laughs brightly, slapping Richie gently on the back. Then, he stands, brushing the wrinkles out of his slacks as he does so. “I’m gonna go get a drink. You want anything?”

Richie waves his hand dismissively and makes a sound answering in the negative, and Seth goes, giving him one last friendly smile and thumbs-up as he leaves.

Richie remains in his chair for a moment before standing himself and making a beeline for the elevator.

_How the hell did it come to this?_ He wonders internally, staring at his reflection in the polished metal of the elevator after punching the button for the floor that held his dressing room with, perhaps, a little more force than necessary.

And he lets that thought float there in the relative emptiness of his tired mind. How _did_ it come to this – to playing a gay man on television, pretending to be in love with his co-workers? Although, Richie muses with something resembling bitterness, perhaps it isn’t the ‘playing a gay man’ part that he really needs to wonder about; perhaps it’s how he came to be a gay man _pretending to be a straight man_ who plays a gay man on television. But really, when he gives it a little more thought, he decides maybe it makes sense, after all; he has plenty of experience pretending to be straight. It’s the pretending to be gay that’s the real obstacle for him.

As the elevator opens with a soft ‘ping,’ releasing Richie into the belly of the building he films in once a week, he allows himself a moment to feel every second of his age.

He feels, in truth, like a coward. He realises this as he’s hanging up his Stefon attire, and it leaves him so stricken that he actually has to take a moment to sit down. He feels like a coward. He feels like a coward, perhaps, because he _is_ a coward; he can hold a ten-second kiss with another male actor on live television to make people laugh, but he doesn’t have the backbone to tell anyone that he actually likes kissing other men.

_Is that really true, though?_

And then, sitting on the little grey couch in the corner of his dressing room, still wearing all of those stupid rings, Richie faces a truth he’s been trying to ignore for a long time now: kissing Seth – kissing _anyone_, in fact – while not unenjoyable, felt wrong in a moral way, for reasons that are completely beyond Richie’s understanding. It isn’t just the fact that Richie is closeted, nor is it entirely due to internalised homophobia (though, shamefully, Richie can’t say that those two things don’t factor in). Richie truly cannot say what it is for sure. It isn’t as though he’s _cheating_ on someone, considering he hasn’t really dated anyone in well over two years, and he’s just about as far from prudish as one can get. So _why?_

A face suddenly flashes through his mind and before his eyes, seared there like an afterimage. It’s gone before he can begin to process it, or even tell if he recognises it. He tries to quell his mounting frustration by telling himself that it could have been random, some sort of fluke, but it’s a weak excuse and he knows it. He has the nagging feeling he should know that face, that he should have recognised it _instantly_, but for the life of him he cannot figure out why.

_Maybe I knew him before,_ Richie thinks, unbidden, before he has time to second-guess again.

He stares down at the silver rings still adorning his fingers, takes a deep breath, and begins twisting them off one by one.

“Beep beep, Richie,” he murmurs to himself, though it’s uncertain whether he even knows he said it.

* * *

Bill Denbrough has had it with this rotten screenplay. He’s had it with the director, too, for insisting to Bill that the ending needs to be changed, and with himself for being so quick to bend to other people’s whims. Mostly, though, he’s had it with the screenplay; he’s just about ready to scrap the entire last half and rewrite it from scratch (as though that would change the fact that he apparently couldn’t wrap up a story to save his life).

He’s been writing and rewriting and editing and starting over and hating himself for over _two hours_ and he has nothing. The only thing keeping him sane is the _SNL_ reruns he has playing for background noise, and even that isn’t going to work much longer if he keeps subjecting himself to this torture.

Sighing and carding a hand through his hair, Bill leans back in his chair, looking up from his laptop to tune into the episode of _SNL_ that’s playing. His eyes catch on the face of the actor seated next to Seth Meyers, the host of the _SNL Weekend Update_, and as soon as his gaze locks onto the man’s face, he finds himself unable to look away – even when he hears the door to his study open behind him, meaning that Audra is about to catch him slacking off.

“Hello, darling,” Audra says as she approaches Bill’s desk, placing a mug in front of him. “How’s it coming along?”

Her voice doesn’t even reach Bill’s ears. His eyes remain focused on the face of the unknown actor, unable to tear himself away.

“…Bill?” Audra places a tentative hand on Bill’s back, and he jumps, the trance broken.

“Hi, sorry, honey,” Bill says, letting out a heavy breath through his nose and running a hand over his face. “What—What did you say?”

Audra doesn’t seem bothered by his lack of attentiveness – on the contrary, she only looks endeared.

“I asked how it’s coming along but considering the fact that I just came in to find you staring at the tube, I assume it isn’t coming along at all,” Audra tells him, rather matter-of-factly. “Should’ve known you would find a way to distract yourself if I wasn’t here to keep an eye on you.”

Her words conflict with the fondness in her voice, so Bill doesn’t take what she says personally, though part of him feels that he should; instead, he simply mutters something only half coherent about how the man on the screen looked familiar.

Audra hums, looking over and really noticing what Bill’s watching for the first time. “Ah, that’s Richie Tozier.”

_Richie Tozier._ Something about the name nags at the back of Bill’s mind. He feels as though he should recognise it – or perhaps more accurately, he _does_ recognise it, but he feels as though he should know _why._ He tests the name on his tongue, and it rolls off easily, in an almost practiced way.

Audra nods. “I believe the stage name he uses is ‘Trashmouth.’ He’s grown quite a bit in popularity since he started at Saturday Night Live; I’ve even come across him at a couple of events lately. He’s rather good,” Audra says distractedly, watching the two men on the screen for a moment before continuing, “Perhaps that’s why you think you’ve seen him before?”

“Yeah,” Bill says, somehow not convinced. “Yeah, that m-m…” He furrows his brow. “_Must_ be it.”

Audra doesn’t seem to notice his momentary struggle, which he’s grateful for, because he isn’t sure how he would explain it if she had. He tells himself it’s probably just nerves; he’s working himself up trying to finish this godforsaken manuscript, and the frustration and anxiety must be getting to him more than he realised.

He still can’t shake the feeling that he _knows_ Richie Tozier – or, at least, _knew_ him. Knew him almost as well as he knew himself, if not better.

Bill is shaken from his reverie when Audra places her hands gently on his shoulders, lightly massaging them, cooing softly at the tension she finds there.

“You really ought to get back to work soon, love,” she says gently. “You know how easily you lose your motivation.”

Bill nods absently, looking at the television one last time. He watches Richie Tozier make faces and do voices (though for some reason, in his head, Bill thinks of them as Voices, the capitalisation being very significant for reasons he cannot explain) for another moment before very reluctantly reaching for the remote and turning off the TV.

* * *

Ben Hanscom has never been gladder for the end of a meeting in his entire life. He’s been sitting in the same position for so long that he can actually feel himself melding with his (hideously expensive, oddly uncomfortable) chair. He lets out a jaw-popping yawn as he finally stands, stretching as much as his ‘more-business-than-casual’ attire will allow, and retrieving his jacket from the back of his chair.

One of the board members to his right begins chatting amicably about her upcoming plans and asks another man across the table if he has “anything exciting planned.”

“I do, as a matter of fact!” The balding man replies almost boastfully over the boardroom table. “Just bought me and the wife two tickets to a Richie Tozier stand-up show for our anniversary. Sold out right after I got ‘em – what luck! Can you believe it?”

Ben freezes at the sound of the name. It’s so familiar that he’s absolutely _positive_ he’s heard it before – hell, he can picture himself _saying_ it with such startling clarity that he must have done it, and yet he cannot recall ever having heard of Richie Tozier.

Trying to appear casual, Ben asks, “Richie Tozier? Who’s that?”

The others swivel their heads to look at him, some of them with disbelief written plainly on their faces.

“_Who’s Richie Tozier?_” The balding man (whose name escape Ben at the moment, though he thinks it begins with a W – Wallace? Walter, maybe?) says incredulously. “Richie Tozier is only one of _the_ comedic geniuses of our time! He’s done stand-up in some of the most famous venues in North America! He’s been on _Saturday Night Live_ since 2010!” Maybe-Walter’s face is red with exertion, and Ben hears one of the other board members say something about his blood pressure in a warning tone. “You’re telling me you’ve _never heard_ of _Richie Tozier?_”

Ben throws his hands up placatingly, trying to think of something to say to quell Maybe-Walter’s anger. “Sorry, I just… don’t really watch _SNL_.”

It’s a stupid thing to say, but the anger seems to seep out of Maybe-Walter in seconds just from hearing it.

“Ah, no sweat, man,” He says. Then: “Y’know, I don’t blame you for not watching it. Who even stays up that late anymore, right?”

“Uh. Yeah.” Ben thinks about the information he’s learned about this Richie Tozier. He doesn’t really _watch_ _SNL_, but considering how popular it is, he supposes that playing on the show for upwards of five years is a pretty big accomplishment.

_Looks like Trashmouth finally made it to the big leagues,_ he thinks, and then he wonders what the hell that even means.

Out loud, Ben says, “I’ll have to look up some of his recent stuff.”

The woman to Ben’s right, whose name is Meredith, says, “I don’t really think his humour would be your ‘thing,’” she smiles warmly and pats his arm. “It’s a bit… _Crude._”

“Never stopped him before,” Ben says without thinking.

Meredith furrows her brow. “What do you mean?”

Ben tries to think of a response, but when he reaches into the place in his brain the words had sprung from, he finds that all he gets is emptiness.

“Uh… Nothing. Forget about it,” he says, with a winning smile and a dismissive hand-wave, and for some reason he knows that the others _will_ forget about it.

With no reason to stay any longer, Ben picks up his briefcase and heads for the door. He checks his watch absentmindedly, making a mental note to look into this _Richie Tozier_ when he gets home.

The idea is gone from his mind before he even reaches the elevator.

* * *

Stan Uris has never been bored by doing bills in his entire adult life. He finds it almost therapeutic to sit down on the couch in his living room with the envelopes laid out on the coffee table in neat columns, armed with his trusty red pen, paper shredder affixed to the wastepaper basket settled next to his right knee. He genuinely _enjoys_ it, no matter how mundane it may seem; it gives him a chance to relax and helps him feel like he’s doing something important.

(It’s also something of a trade-off in his mind, considering Patricia is the only one out of the two of them with any culinary prowess. She says that he makes up for it by doing the dishes and helping her clean the kitchen afterward, but he still feels like he needs to contribute somehow. He’d never admit to that, though.)

Anyway, yes, Stan is a weirdo who likes math and thinks doing bills is fun. This is important because Stan has been sitting in the living room, bills all perfectly lined up in front of him, pen in hand, for an hour now… And he hasn’t done anything for almost fifteen minutes. The reason for this is simple: he’s been staring at the TV, where an episode of _Saturday Night Live_ is playing, courtesy of Netflix.

There’s movement to his left, and he is both startled and confused to look over and find Patricia sitting on the couch next to him.

“I thought you were making lunch,” Stan says, brows drawing together.

Patricia cocks her head at him. She looks as confused as Stan feels. “I did,” she says, gesturing to two plates sitting on the coffee table in front of them. “I told you it was ready from the kitchen three times. Did you not hear me?”

Stan feels his attention drifting back to the TV. “Must not have,” he murmurs, leaning forward to pick up his fork.

Stefon, a character Stan isn’t familiar with, is talking about Valentine’s Day destinations in New York, one of them being “located in an abandoned orphanage in the lower-lower east side of Chelsea.”

“I never understood how you could watch this stuff,” Patricia muses aloud. “It doesn’t make sense, and it’s so insensitive. It just doesn’t seem like the kind of thing that you would find funny.”

Stan hums noncommittally. Her words are going in one ear and out the other right now; all of Stan’s processing power is currently devoted to trying to place the face of the actor playing Stefon.

“Hey, Patty,” Stan says around a mouthful of chicken parmesan, before chewing and swallowing hastily. “Do you know the name of that actor? He looks so familiar, but I just can’t place him.”

Patricia laughs. “Stan, I must have told you his name a dozen times, now. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten _again?_” Stan shrugs, unease rising in him at the thought that he’s done this very thing before but has no memory of it, and Patty sighs. “It’s Richie Tozier, sweetie. Remember? I told you his name the first time when my cousins when to see one of his stand-up routines during spring break?”

Stan doesn’t remember that at all. He wracks his brain and is unable to recall ever having asked the man’s name before. He nods anyway.

On the screen, Stefon says something about “Jewpids,” and Richie Tozier begins to break character, his shoulders drawing up near his ears as he cups his hands over his mouth to hide his smile, but nothing can disguise the mirth in his eyes.

Something about it seems horribly familiar to Stan, but he simply cannot place how or why. His brows draw together again as he mulls this over, digging through memories as far back as he can before he reaches the hazy, blank white of his childhood. He feels, with some level of certainty, that it _must_ have something to do with his inability to remember his hometown, or any of his life before college, really. He just cannot, for the life of him, figure out how the two things are related; every time he thinks he might be nearing the answer, the conclusion flutters off out of reach.

_Can’t forget this time. Have to remember. Have to remember…_

Perhaps spotting Stan’s stormy expression and assuming it’s related to the Jew jokes, Patricia swiftly grabs the remote and exits Netflix, flipping to Animal Planet. After she does this, she puts the remote down and places a hand on Stan’s shoulder.

“Don’t let it get to you, Stan. It’s not worth bothering yourself over.”

Stan hums quietly, leaning into her touch and listening to David Attenborough describe the mating rituals of the Bird of Paradise. Soon, he forgets what he was so focused on.

* * *

Beverly Marsh has been working on her new concept sketches for an upcoming line all day, completely absorbed in the feeling of creating, when her secretary knocks on her door and tells her there’s a call waiting for her on line one.

Reluctantly putting her pencils down, Beverly supresses a sigh and says, “Put it through.”

She takes the phone off the receiver and presses the speakerphone button, and an unfamiliar voice comes through saying, “_Beverly Marsh?_”

“This is she.”

“_It’s a pleasure to speak to you, Miss Marsh. If you’re not busy, I have a favour to ask._”

Beverly cocks an eyebrow at the forwardness, but a part of her admits she’s glad for it. If she’d had to waste time with small talk and pleasantries, she would have been more than a little upset.

“It depends on the favour,” Beverly says.

“_Of course. I’m a talent manager, and my client is going to be attending an award ceremony in a few months. We’ve seen the kind of things you create, and we would love for you to be the one to design his attire for the event._”

Beverly feels her heart skip a beat. This is the first time in her career that anyone has personally contacted her to dress them – or, in this case, their client – like this. It feels somehow more special because of the fact that they didn’t go through Tom, just called her directly to ask, despite the fact that she’s never done anything like this before.

She knows it’s an opportunity she can’t pass up.

“I would be happy to assist,” she says into the phone, trying her best to sound cool and professional even though she’s definitely freaking out in the best way. She opens a drawer in her desk and rifles around until she finds a legal pad and a pen. “Who am I speaking to, and could I have your contact info so that I can get in touch with you?”

“_My name is Steve Covall,_” replies the voice on the other end. Steve gives his phone number, his email, his fax, and even his mailing address, and then says, “_My client is Richie Tozier._”

Beverly freezes, her pen stuttering to halt in the middle of writing the ‘R’ in Richie. “I’m sorry?”

“_Richie Tozier? The comedian?_”

Beverly swallows thickly past the lump in her throat. “Right. Right. And… What, uh, what ceremony will your client be attending? Just so I have an idea of where to start.”

“_The Emmy's._”

Beverly jots this down, underlining it twice for good measure. “Is he being honoured?”

There’s a brief hesitation. For a moment, Beverly thinks that Steve might have hung up, but then he says, “_That, I can’t say. Gotta keep everything hush-hush, you know how it is.”_

Beverly nods instinctively before remembering that Steve can’t see her and feeling a bit foolish. “I understand. Are there any specifications I should know before I start working on a design? Any allergies to fabrics or anything like that?”

In the background of the call, another man says, “_Tell her not to make the collar too tight and don’t use anything itchy. And stick to as few layers as possible, I don’t wanna fucking die while also being forced to act like a proper functioning adult for four hours._”

A smile finds its way to Beverly’s face, unbidden, and a swell of affection rises in her chest, so warm and light, filling her up and making her feel safe. When she realises it, though, the smile fractures before shattering completely; a sense of panic starts to override the warmth. Tom’s face appears in her mind, the way he looks when he’s suspicious of her, and her heart starts to race.

Making sure her voice sounds unchanged, Beverly says, “Got it. I’ll be in touch to get his measurements.”

“_Thank you, Miss Marsh. Have a nice day._”

Beverly echoes the sentiment and hangs up. She stares at the phone, her hand still gripping it like a vice, but she doesn’t see it, not really.

* * *

In the middle of Derry, a Podunk little town in Maine, Mike Hanlon sits in the apartment above the library, flipping through the newspaper as he listens with one ear to the radio.

He has an intense look of focus on his face as he scans the text – one that doesn’t usually come with the territory of reading the Sunday paper.

“_—And in other news, comedian and actor Richie Tozier is set to host this year’s Emmy Awards!_”

Mike perks up at the name – a familiar one. The name of a friend he could never, in his entire life, forget.

The announcer continues: “_Tozier is most well-known for his roles in the 2007 film _Superbad_, 2008’s controversial _Tropic Thunder_, and his many roles on _Saturday Night Live. _He will likely be receiving nominations this year in the Variety Sketch categories…_”

Mike listens for a moment, smiling fondly as the announcer continues to sing Richie’s praises.

“_…Is also preparing for a tour later this year! What a busy schedule!_”

Mike’s smile falters. He looks back down at the newspaper spread across his desk – in fact, there isn’t only one, and not all of them are intact. Nearly all of the clippings are related to disappearances or murders that have happened in the past two weeks.

Mike’s eyes find the most recent one, hidden between reports of the local Little League team’s most recent game and a bunch of coupons for Derry’s one and only department store.

Victoria Fuller. The picture of her makes Mike think of the pictures he’d seen of another missing child, sitting in a box in the Denbrough’s garage, every one of them face down, like they couldn’t bear to look at them.

He turns the radio off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i relate to bill denbrough because i too have no idea how to write an ending


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for the Lucky Seven to come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fair warning, just so you guys dont get bored reading this and start yelling at me in the comments: while most of the phone call scenes have definitely changed a lot, there are a couple that are either exactly the same or very similar. i won't say which ones just bc i dont wanna spoil it, but if that displeases you, feel free to skip this one. all you really have to know is that mike calls and its not fun for anybody lol
> 
> also, bev's scene has graphic depictions of domestic violence. it's in the same order as the last chapter, so if you wanna skip that part, just go from stan's to the next little line. please be safe <3

All things considered, Eddie supposes, being chased around the house by his wife while she insists that his taste in entertainment is going to somehow result in his untimely end isn’t the _worst_ thing he’s ever done on a day off.

Oh, who is he kidding. Eddie has never regretted proposing more in his life than he does right now.

“Eddie, those shows are _filthy!_ You know you shouldn’t be watching them; it isn’t good for you!”

Eddie has to remind himself to keep a firm grasp on the sliver of calm he’s still holding on to, drawing in a deep breath through his nose and forcing a smile as he turns to face Myra.

“Sweetie,” he says, the term of endearment coming out like a swear word, “I am _forty years old_. I’m old enough to separate fiction from reality. I’m not gonna _keel over_ because some comedian made a dick joke on late night television!”

Myra gasps, scandalised, at his use of language. “_Edward_.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Oh for _fuck’s sake_, Myra—”

Myra’s expression suddenly goes steely, and Eddie sighs inwardly, bracing himself for the storm he knows is brewing behind that look.

“Edward Kaspbrak, don’t you _dare_ use that kind of language with me. And _don’t_ try to change the subject, either; I know you’ve been watching those shows. Your change in attitude alone is enough to prove it.” She sniffs, drawing herself up to her full height, which doesn’t amount to much. “I don’t want you watching them. They’re a bad influence on you, and as your wife I think I should at least get _some_ say in these things, seeing as they affect me too.”

A tic in Eddie’s cheek begins acting up. Unable to help himself, he says, “How are you so sure I’ve been watching them? No, in fact, how _can_ I have been? I go to bed at nine thirty every night!” He doesn’t add that he only does so because Myra began pestering him about it. _Remember that old saying, Eddie, dear? ‘Early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy and wise.’_

Myra’s eyes narrow. She bears an uncanny resemblance to a cobra just before it strikes; Eddie has to force himself not to cower.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Eddie; I saw them recorded on the DVR. You taped over _Days of Our Lives_ with that crude, disgusting man from the Saturday night show.”

_Crude. Disgusting._ Something about those descriptors in relation to the comedian whose specials he had taped are enough to make Eddie’s blood boil. He clenches his jaw before remembering that his neurologist told him he desperately needed to stop doing it.

“Fine!” He spits. “You’re _right,_ Myra; I taped over your stupid soaps because I wanted to watch stand-up.” He flings his hands into the air, exasperated. “Whoop de fuckin’ doo! It’s not like it’s a big deal, you’re actually _here_ to watch your shows every day while I’m out at work, and then when I get home I have barely any time to myself! Maybe I just want to have _something_ that I can enjoy. Is that _okay,_ Myra, or do I need your permission and approval for _that_, too?”

Myra looks absolutely flabbergasted at his outburst. Tears have begun to well up in her already watery blue eyes, and her bottom lip is quivering in a way that almost makes Eddie feel bad.

Almost.

“Eddie…”

“_What?_” Eddie snaps. It’s the straw that breaks the proverbial camel’s back; Myra bursts into tears, blubbering loudly.

“Oh, _Eddie!_” Myra cries. “You—You’re so _awful!_ All I want is to take care of you, and this is how you treat me?” She fans herself with one hand, hiccupping and sniffling. “Oh, your mother was right! You just don’t understand anything!”

With this, Myra flees. Eddie hears the door to the room that was once their shared bedroom slam. There was a time when an outburst like the would mean Eddie resigning himself to sleeping in the spare bedroom, but now, he barely even reacts; he sleeps in the spare bedroom most nights these days.

Sighing and grumbling to himself under his breath, he heads to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.

He’s heading back to the living room, his favourite shatterproof mug in hand, when his phone starts to ring, startling him so badly that he nearly drops his mug.

Switching his mug to his right hand and answering his phone with his left, Eddie greets his mystery caller with a sunny, “Edward Kaspbrak speaking.”

“_It’s me. Mike._”

Eddie freezes, his eyes widening as the smile drops from his face. “Mike who?”

“_Hanlon. From Derry._”

Eddie really does drop his mug, then. It doesn’t break (obviously, being shatterproof), but it makes a _very_ loud noise as it hits the floor, and tea spills all over the place. Strangely, Eddie doesn’t even say a word.

“_Eddie, you okay?_”

Feeling slightly hysterical, Eddie replies, “Yeah, I’m pretty good…”

By the time Mike is done explaining what’s going on, why he’s suddenly calling out of the blue, Eddie wants something a little stronger than tea.

Eddie agrees to go back. He has no clue _why_ – it’s probably the shock or something, causing him to make rash decisions.

He gets off the phone, and then he sits on the couch, ignoring the mess in the middle of the floor while he thinks. A bespectacled face drifts across his mind, and all of a sudden, he finds himself jumping up.

_Shock don’t fail me now,_ he thinks somewhat manically as he approaches Myra’s room and pounds on the door.

“Myra! I want a divorce!”

* * *

Richie is sitting backstage before a show, half-listening as Steve talks at him, when he gets the call.

It’s not a number he recognises – a 207 area code, from Derry, Maine – but he figures there’s no harm in answering it, so he picks up.

“_Richie. It’s Mike. Mike Hanlon. Do you remember me?_”

And immediately regrets it.

A rush of memories hit him like a head-on collision. His ears start ringing, his heart pounds so hard that he’s genuinely afraid for a moment that he might be having a heart attack. His stomach churns, and he leaps to his feet, rushing to the nearest bathroom.

By the time his stomach has forcefully ejected its contents, Steve is chattering at him.

“Dude, dude—What the _fuck_, you were fine like, five seconds ago! Who was that? Who called?”

_Mike._ Richie murmurs a semi-coherent, “Call you back,” and hangs up the call. He drops his head, his shoulders heaving with the force of his breathing, lifting a shaky hand to brush his fringe out of his face. He grimaces when he finds that his hair is glued to his forehead with sweat.

Steve places a hand on Richie’s shoulder. “Rich?” He gives Richie’s shoulder and back an awkward little rub. “Rich, talk to me.” He pulls a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, saying, “You’re on in two minutes, you good? ‘Cause you look _not_ good.”

Richie takes the handkerchief, wiping the sweat from his forehead with it before pressing it to the side of his face and trying to urge his racing heart to slow down. His throat burns with the taste of bile.

“’M fine,” Richie says gruffly, even though he really doesn’t feel fine.

Steve doesn’t question him on it, unsurprisingly. “You’re fine? Okay.”

Richie passes Steve the handkerchief distractedly, and Steve makes a face before tossing it in the garbage. He grabs Richie by the shoulders and leads him out of the bathroom, back to where he was before.

“And we’re walking, we’re walking—”

A crew member appears out of nowhere, looking harried, keeping pace with Steve and Richie as he says, “Sixty seconds.”

Steve makes a distressed noise. “—_Even faster_,” he hisses to Richie. To the crew member, he says, “Right, could you please get him a bottle of water? Maybe—”

“_Bourbon,_” Richie interrupts, with urgency.

“Bourbon, right, sure, sure,” Steve waves a hand.

“And a _mint,_” Richie adds, grimacing again at the residual flavour of vomit in his mouth. The crew member hurries off, shouting at a couple of PAs.

Steve rubs his hands up and down Richie’s arms as he guides him to the correct location, murmuring in his ear. “All right, look alive Rich, it’s show time.”

“I don’t think I can do this.”

Steve splutters incoherently as a different member of the crew than before suddenly deposits a glass of bourbon on the rocks and an entire container of mints into Richie’s hands.

“That was fast,” Richie mutters, genuinely impressed, before tipping his head back and slamming first the liquor and then several mints.

“—Killer, you’re a killer!” Steve is saying, babbling nervously just to give himself something to do. “Okay, we are _good to go!_ We are—” He grabs Richie, who had been about to walk out through the emergency exit and had momentarily set off the alarm. “Hey! Where’re you going?” He redirects Richie toward the wing. “_This_ way! Attaboy! …Okay!”

Richie stops and turns to face Steve, taking a deep breath.

“All right, how do I look?”

Steve’s jaw tightens as he looks pointedly at Richie’s hands. “Your, uh… Your hands are shakin’, Rich.”

It’s then that Richie notices the combined clinking of the ice in his otherwise empty glass in the remaining mints in their plastic container. He looks down, frowning deeply as he watches his hands tremble. “_Shit._”

_Fuck it. No time to worry about it now._

He pushes the container of mints and the glass into Steve’s hands and walks out onto the stage to take his place.

* * *

Bill hasn’t made any progress at all in finishing the script, but in his defence, he’s been having a bit of an off day. He has this strange feeling, localised in the centre of his chest, that just won’t go away – in fact, it only seems to be getting stronger. He keeps trying to name it, but he doesn’t remember ever feeling anything like it before. It’s like a weight in the very middle of his being, pressing down on the core of him, crushing his heart.

In his mind, it’s more than enough reason to be distracted.

He’s shaken from his thoughts by a knock at the door, which frightens him enough to draw a little ‘oh!’ of surprise. He drops his glasses from his head where he’d pushed them up and starts typing at random on his laptop, just in time for one of the filming assistants to enter his trailer.

“Mr Denbrough? They need you on set.”

Relieved that he won’t have to carry on the charade but dreading the inevitable chewing out he knows he’s about to receive, Bill stands up from the couch and follows the young woman.

Feeling the need to make conversation, he says, “Is everything, uh,” interrupting himself as he hops down the steps, “good?”

If the assistant hears him, she pretends not to notice that he’s said anything. “We’re just gonna go this way…”

They begin to walk a little faster when they notice that the stage door is beginning to close, a warning klaxon blaring loudly.

Bill, feeling a childish sense of excitement surge up within him, races forward, sliding under the door just before it closes, despite the assistant frantically telling him not to do so.

The crew member in charge of closing the door shouts, “HEY! CLEAR THE DOOR!”

Bill doesn’t let it put a damper on his mood, grinning at the other man and saying, “C’mon, you’ve never seen _Indiana Jones?_”

Another crewman comes through, calling for Bill to watch out as he barrels through with a large metal cart. Bill jumps back to clear the way for him, staring after him with a ruffled look as he makes his way toward the set.

A third member of the crew yells at Bill, and Bill recognises him as the one who never remembers who Bill is. “Hey, hey. You got clearance to be here?”

Bill sighs. “I’m the _writer._”

Spinning back around and continuing on his way, Bill spots Audra getting her hair and makeup done, and he picks his way through the chaos in her direction.

Before he has the chance to reach her, one of the makeup artists whispers something in Audra’s ear, and Audra turns around, smiling widely when she sees Bill.

“Hello, darling,” she says, reaching out a hand to give one of Bill’s a squeeze. “Do you have the pages?”

Bill hesitates. He plasters a sheepish smile onto his face, opening his mouth to answer her, when Peter, the director, is lowered in his platform chair.

Peter looks at Bill flatly from behind his thick glasses. “My friend,” he says by way of greeting, before folding his hands in his lap. “The film _needs_ an ending. You do know that, right?”

Bill’s smile drops, and he fidgets. “Oh. Yeah.”

Audra frowns gently at him. “Bill, you said you would have the manuscript finished by half ten. We have to shoot _tonight_.”

“There’s still _seventeen hours_—” Bill snaps, suddenly irritated.

Peter raises his hands. “Everybody calm down, okay?”

Bill furrows his brow. “I’m calm.”

Peter steeples his fingers, peering at Bill. “I want you to be _happy_ with this movie. You understand? I’m on _your side._”

“That’s—That’s great, ‘cause in my book, the ending—”

“Is _terrible,_” Peter interrupts sharply, causing Bill’s hope to burst like a red balloon in his chest. Perhaps seeing the confusion and hurt on Bill’s face, Peter continues. “All due respect, people loved your book, _loved._ They _hated_ the ending.”

This doesn’t clarify Bill’s confusion, though. “You said you _liked_ the ending.”

Peter gives Bill this pitying look that makes Bill’s skin itch. “That was a lie.” He watches Bill for a moment. “We gotta do better, okay?”

Bill nods, his heart sinking. “Y…Yeah.”

Peter instructs Audra to give Bill Peter’s notes before calling the crew to take him “back to one.” Bill turns to Audra as Peter is lifted out of view, that hurt and confusion and the bitter feeling of betrayal still burning in his gut.

Instead of beginning with Peter’s critiques, Audra says, “Bill, is something wrong?”

“What do you mean,” Bill bites out after a moment.

Audra regards him with that same sad, pitying expression Peter had, and it makes Bill angry.

“Bill, sweetheart,” Audra says softly, taking a step toward him, “I’m _worried_ about you. You just haven’t been yourself lately – you’re so distracted and distant. Please, _talk_ to me.” She reaches out to place a hand on Bill’s arm, and he jerks away instinctively.

“There’s nothing _wrong_ with me,” Bill snaps, “I’m the most myself I’ve ever been. I’m just sick of people shitting all over my writing!” He cards a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Would it kill you to be on my side for once?”

Hurt flashes in Audra’s eyes. “Bill, that is _not_ fair,” she says lowly.

Swallowing hard and taking a deep breath, Bill sighs. He closes his eyes and runs a hand over his face. “I…I know. Audra, I’m—”

He’s interrupted by the sound of his ringtone. He digs his phone out of his pocket, his eyebrows furrowing at the unfamiliar number.

“Who is it?”

Audra’s voice startles him enough that he jumps, but he doesn’t think she notices. He looks up at her.

“I… I don’t know,” he admits. “It’s from Derry.”

Audra purses her lips. “Go.”

Bill hesitates for a moment before he heads for the side door, swiping to accept the call.

“Hello?”

“_Bill Denbrough? …It’s Mike._”

He doesn’t recognise the voice, but the name somehow seems familiar. He feels a crease form between his brows.

“Mike who?”

“_Mike Hanlon. From Derry._”

Mike Hanlon. _Oh God._ The scar on Bill’s left palm begins to burn intensely as a figure hovers in his vision – broad shoulders and large palms, a shy smile, thick eyebrows. Bill hisses in pain.

“_You need to come home._”

Mike promises to send the details along, and then he hangs up.

Bill closes his eyes for a moment, debating his options in his head.

Then he starts booking his flight.

* * *

Ben watches with a sudden spike of anxiety as one of his employees starts the pitch for a new project, fingers brushing lightly against the rim of his glass. He isn’t sure where the nerves are coming from; he doesn’t even have much personal investment in this project. A voice in the back of his mind wonders if it has anything to do with the project at all, but he brushes the thought off expertly, trying to focus on the conference call.

“_Thank you, ladies and gentlemen for letting us present to you,_” says the man in the grey suit – the only person in the room who’s standing. “_Now, _this…” He begins, indicating the detailed blueprints laid out on the conference room table. “Will include over a million square feet of commercial _and_ residential space, state-of-the-art office towers—”

One of the investors, who has been scowling since he first laid eyes on the plans, interrupts. “What I’m _really_ looking for is to understand how we create even more _retail_ opportunities,” he says pointedly, and Ben bristles. The man leans forward, dragging his index finger in a line along one section. “If we put in walls here and all along here—”

“Lose them.”

Every head in the room turns toward Ben – or, more accurately, toward the screen he’s displayed on. He knows that disagreeing with the investors is a bad idea, but he absolutely cannot _stand_ this man, cannot stand the idea of turning this project into yet another cash cow for some bigwig.

The bigwig in question stares flatly into the webcam, expression sour. “With all due respect, Mr Hanscom—”

“Ben, please. And with all due respect to you, I’m getting claustrophobic just lookin’ at this model. Aren’t you?” Ben says matter-of-factly, tilting his head ever so slightly. He drags his hand away from his half-empty glass, splaying his hands on his desk. “Look, throw up more walls, it’s gonna feel like a prison. Y’know what people wanna do in prison? _Get out._ Right? This should be a place that brings people together. A meeting ground.”

One of Ben’s hands inches out of view toward his wallet, folding down one of the pockets. Inside is a yearbook page, the solitary signature gracing it written in blue pen and followed by a single underline and several sloppy, bubbly hearts.

“…A clubhouse,” Ben adds absently. “And if, while people are there, then—”

Ben’s impassioned speech is interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. He glances over, noticing the area code for Derry, Maine, and his brows furrow.

“Excuse me for one second.” He puts the conference call on hold, standing and ambling a couple of feet away from his desk before answering the call. “Hello?”

“_Ben? It’s Mike Hanlon. From Derry._”

Ben’s heart starts to race.

Everything blurs a bit, after that. By the end of the call, Mike’s number is in Ben’s phone, with the promise to text Ben any information he might need.

Ben doesn’t really remember the rest of the conference, but by the end of it, the surly investor has conceded, and the project has the funding it needs. The last thing Ben remembers before collapsing into bed fully clothed is informing them that he’s going to be taking an impromptu vacation – something very important has come up.

* * *

Stan is working on one of the new puzzles Patricia got him for his birthday (this one has birds on it!), _SNL_ on in the background, and he’s pretty sure he’s never been more content in his life.

“Should I just book it?” Patty asks, referring to the flight to Buenos Aires she’s been debating booking for fifteen minutes. After a brief pause: “You’re _sure_ you can get away from work?”

“It’s summer, why not,” Stan replies cheerily as he lays another puzzle piece in its correct place.

Patty is silent for a moment, then Stan hears some clicking and typing. “…Okay, we are Buenos Aires bound!”

Stan smiles fondly before realising that there’s a piece missing. Brow furrowed, he removes his glasses and tucks them carefully inside his shirt pocket, getting down on his hands and knees to look for the puzzle piece under the coffee table. Sure enough, that’s where it is; he reaches under and grabs it, triumphant, but before he can get up, his phone starts to ring.

He checks the caller ID through the glass tabletop, squinting slightly, before slowly getting out from under the table, rising into a kneeling position to answer the phone.

“Stanley Uris speaking.”

“_It’s Mike._”

Stan blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“_Mike Hanlon. From Derry._”

Stan’s heart sinks. Somewhat dazed, he replies, “Mike. God, sorry, yes. Hi,” he laughs nervously. “I didn’t—I don’t know why I didn’t, um… How long’s it been?”

“_A long time._” Mike hesitates. “_…Twenty-seven years.”_

Stan stands up and crosses the room, trying to put some distance between himself and the kitchen, to prevent Patty from overhearing any part of the conversation.

“…It’s come back, hasn’t it? That’s why you’ve called me?”

“_It’s starting again, Stan,_” Mike says heavily. “_Bad things are happening._”

Stan’s lower lip quivers and he clenches and unclenches his free hand. “H—Di—D’you, did you call the others?” He asks, somewhat desperate. “I mean—what if they don’t come, and then—"

When Mike cuts him off, his tone is sharp and leaves no room for argument. “_You made a _promise, _remember?_” He hears Mike take a deep breath. “_…How soon can you get here?_”

Stan swallows. “Um… Well, I, uh… Yeah, I would need to do a few things, I would—”

“_Tomorrow,_” Mike says, and Stan flinches. “_We don’t have much time. I’ll text you everything you need. I’ll see ya soon, Stan the Man._”

Mike ends the call.

Stan lets his arm fall limply to his side as he crosses back to the other side of the room, his whole body feeling numb, and sinks down onto the couch. Distantly, he hears Patty ask him who called.

“Just… an old friend,” he replies, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears. She hums, satisfied with this answer.

Stan feels himself begin to tremble, and he locks his muscles to try and stop it from becoming noticeable.

He can’t go back. He _can’t_ go back. He knows he should, he made a promise, but, god – that was so long ago, he was just a stupid kid. He doesn’t want to go back there. He can’t face It again.

_But what about the others?_ Hisses a voice in his mind that sounds something like Bill. _You know that if you stay here, their blood is on your hands. Are you just going to let them die?_

He tries to tell himself that there’s no way to know for sure that all seven of them have to be there for it work. Maybe… Maybe just _one_ won’t matter. They have no idea how this bond between them works; there’s no reason to think that him staying leads to the others dying.

_Will you be able to live with yourself if it turns out you’re wrong?_

Stan takes a soft, shuddering breath, and is about to make up his mind when a voice from the TV catches his attention.

“_My name’s Richie Tozier,_” the voice drones. It’s met by a chorus of, “Hi, Richie,” which leads Stan to believe that they’re doing some kind of support group bit, but he doesn’t care about that. All he can focus on is Richie.

_Richie. Of course._ How could he forget _Richie?_

He stares at the other man’s face for a moment. It only takes a second for Stan to know that Mike has already called him; Richie’s face is pale, and despite the mask his features are schooled into, his eyes are empty. No, not empty, that’s not right – there’s an emotion there. It’s the same one that Stan feels racing through his bloodstream, lighting up his nerves, bidding his pulse to race: fear.

That’s an image Stan can’t really comprehend. Richie Tozier has always been brave to the point of foolishness. He kept pace with Bill, their courageous leader, cracking jokes all the way. Stan cannot reconcile the man before him with the Richie that he knows.

Somehow, though, it makes him feel a little less alone, knowing that this boy who feared nothing is just as afraid as he is.

The bit that they’re doing suddenly ends, and Richie exits the set, a look of determination on his face. Stan tracks the movement with his eyes until Richie is off the screen, and a similar feeling of determination suddenly settles in Stan’s very bones.

He knows now what he has to do.

“Patty, is it too late for you to reschedule that flight?” He calls, standing up from the couch. “Something just came up.”

* * *

Beverly wakes with a start, her heart hammering in her chest. She knows she had a nightmare, just as she knows every night when she wakes up this way that she’s just had a nightmare, but try as she might, she cannot remember what it was about.

She stares up at the ceiling for a moment, listening to Tom snore softly next to her, thankful that she didn’t wake him.

A low, loud vibrating from her right startles her enough that she gasps, but she’s able to calm herself when she realises it’s only her phone. She checks the caller ID and finds that she doesn’t recognise the number, but she feels compelled to answer it anyway.

Looking over at Tom and making sure he’s still sleeping despite the fact that he’s stopped snoring, she slips out of bed, grabbing her phone and making her way over to the window seat. She curls up tight, watching the rain trace nonsensical patterns on the glass, and answers the phone with a soft, “Hello?”

_“Beverly Marsh?_” Asks a voice that she doesn’t recognise.

“This is she,” Beverly replies. “Who am I speaking to?”

“_It’s Mike Hanlon. From Derry. You need to come back, Beverly._”

“Mike,” Beverly whispers. She remembers Mike – she remembers saving him from Henry Bowers and his thugs, confiding in him and the other Losers in Monument Square, watching him hold Richie back after Richie got punched in the face. Belatedly, she also remembers what he’s asking of her. “I can’t.”

“_You made a promise, Beverly,_” he says.

“I-I’m so sorry, Mike,” she says, because it’s the truth. “I don’t even really remember.”

“_Haven’t you ever wondered why you can’t seem to remember things most people should? About where you’re from? About who you are?_” Mike persists. Beverly purses her lips, because of course Mike knew _exactly_ how to get in her head. “_…Why you have that scar on your hand?_” Mike adds, a bit softer.

Beverly sucks in a shaky breath. She slowly uncurls her left hand from the phone to gaze down at the large scar in the centre of her palm. She’s had it for as long as she can remember, and yet… She could never say how she got it.

“_No one else remembered, either. Eddie, Ben, Stan, Richie… Bill._”

“_Bill_,” she breathes, still staring at the scar.

“_You have to come back,_” Mike repeats. “_You all do._”

“When?” Beverly whispers.

As soon as Mike promises to text her all the information she needs, Beverly is moving noiselessly to her closet. She’s grabbing all the things she thinks she needs and stuffing them as carefully as she can into her bag – t-shirts, jeans, jacket, spare pair of shoes, just the essentials. She’s about to head to the bathroom and bring her travel-sized toiletries back with her when she changes her mind, deciding she can just buy them when she gets to Bangor, and going back for her bag. She zips it up and grabs her trainers, turning to leave once more.

And almost runs into Tom. She gasps, frightened by his sudden appearance.

“Woah, you okay?” Tom says, looking and sounding groggy. “What’s goin’ on? It’s uh, the middle of the night—” He eyes the bag over her shoulder. “You’re _packing?_”

Beverly kisses him on the cheek absently before squeezing past him.

“I didn’t wanna wake you,” she mutters, walking over to sit on the bed, dropping her bag on the floor next to it. “Honey, I know this week’s been exhausting…” She tucks her hair behind her ear, biting her lip. “…I just got a phone call from an old friend, from Derry.”

Tom stares at her from where he’s still standing by the closet door, not saying a word. It makes her nervous.

“I have to go back there,” she blurts. “I-It’s really hard to explain why—”

“’S okay,” Tom says. He crosses the room, sitting down next to her on the bed. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. Relax,” he says, smiling as he takes her hand. “I trust you.”

Beverly is relieved. The tension melts out of her as a grateful smile spreads across her face. “Thank you.”

Tom kisses her on the cheek, still smiling. He’s still smiling when Beverly stands up to leave.

And then he grabs her by the wrist.

Her heart sinking, Beverly turns to face him. His head is bowed now, but she can tell he isn’t smiling anymore.

“I just… Don’t understand why you’d lie to me.” He raises his head and stares at her, unblinking. His expression is blank, but his eyes are burning with anger. Beverly shakes her head, just slightly, and Tom stands, still gripping her wrist.

“I _heard_ you,” he says. “You said the name ‘Mike.’”

Beverly nods, desperate to convince him, desperate to make him see the truth. “Yes, my _friend_. See, there was a group of us, back then, and th-then we all… Made a promise to each other, when we were kids—"

Tom cuts her off, his voice low and dangerous. “You know trust is _everything_ in a relationship.”

Beverly nods, her eyes falling closed as she fights back tears. “I kn—”

Tom lifts a hand to stroke her hair. “You know it’s everything to _me_, right?” His already vice-like grip on her wrist turns crushing. “Right?”

“I _know_,” She insists. “This isn’t—”

“What?” Tom snaps. “’Like last time?’”

Beverly’s eyes fly open. “I never cheated on you.”

She needs him to believe her. She needs him to let her go. She leans forward tentatively to kiss him, and he grabs a handful of hair at the side of her head, tearing a gasp from her.

“You’re a bad _fucking liar_, Bev!” She grunts softly in pain as he tugs on her hair, jostling her. “You’re not going anywhere, okay? I want you to stay _right here,_” he hisses angrily, his breath hot on her face as he pushes her backwards, still holding onto her. “And you’re gonna show me what it is you’re gonna do with Mike!” He shoves her up against the mantel. “Okay?”

Meek, afraid of making him angrier, Beverly says, “Honey, you’re—you’re hurting me, honey—"

It has the opposite of the desired effect. Tom drops her wrist and grabs her by the throat, presses his face close to hers.

“_No one else_ is gonna love you like _me_, you know that, right?”

And something about that statement causes something to snap in Beverly. A spike of white-hot anger suddenly seizes her, and she brings her hand up, slashing her nails across the side of Tom’s face. This time, he releases her, stumbling away as she gasps for breath.

Immediately, though, the anger – the _power_ – that she felt is gone. She’s left staring wide-eyed at his back, terrified and with none of the strength she needs to defend herself.

“I—” Her lower lip quivers. “I’m-m-m sorry—”

She doesn’t see him grab the belt, but when he turns around with it in his hands, her eyes go impossibly wider, and she instinctively raises her arms to protect her head, just in time to block the first blow, which lands with such force it almost knocks her to the ground. As it is, it moves her almost two feet to one side.

She grits her teeth against the pain, hunkering down despite the blur of tears in her eyes.

Tom hits her three more times, lashing her in various places across her forearms, before he’s near enough for her to grab hold of his arm.

“Don’t make this FUCKIN’ HARDER—” He roars.

“Don’t,” Beverly says softly, and in that single word, she puts all the pain and fear and _suffering_ he’s put her through. He is nothing but a man, just flesh and blood, and in her heart she knows that she has faced far scarier things. She has _defeated_ far scarier things.

She lifts her chin, defiant, and silently dares him to give her his best shot. He takes the bait.

Without her arms blocking access to her face, the punch he throws at her lands solidly on the edge of her cheekbone, and she allows herself to fall with the momentum, dropping onto the bed.

She rolls over just in time to see him reaching to take off his shirt.

_No._

Putting as much power into it as she can, Beverly kicks Tom hard in the chest with both legs. She doesn’t stop to apologise this time; she scrambles off the side of the bed, knocking a picture off the bedside table, and when Tom comes at her again, she flings it at him as hard as she can. He catches it like a frisbee in both hands and tosses it aside. As he continues to advance on her, Beverly stands, grabbing another picture from the table. She waits until he’s almost upon her.

And then she smashes it into his head as hard as she can. She hopes he feels every piece of broken glass that sticks in his skin, and she names them all after the blows he’s dealt to her.

Then, she grabs her bag and runs. She descends the stairs as quickly as she can and she’s almost home free when he leans over the bannister to yell after her.

“YOU’RE NOTHING WITHOUT ME! YOU KNOW THAT, RIGHT!” His voice echoes after her as she makes a mad dash through the foyer. “TELL ME I’M WRONG!”

She doesn’t stop to close the front door behind her. As she descends the front steps, she wiggles her wedding ring off her finger and drops it on the stoop without pausing to look back.

* * *

Mike ends the final call, makes a check mark next to the final name, and finally, _finally_ sits down to rest. He drags a hand over his face, feeling older than he’s ever felt.

He hopes they come. He wants to have faith, to believe that they’ll all honour the oath, but…

Part of him wonders, seriously, if _he_ wouldn’t come back. Part of him thinks if he had forgotten, he wouldn’t want to remember – and he’d chosen to stay. He can’t imagine how the others must feel.

They must hate him.

_Don’t think like that, _he scolds himself. _They’ll come. You have to believe it. Remember the bond you have – to each other, to this place. They will come._

With a sigh that seems to come from his very soul, Mike switches on the little television and is met with a segment on some entertainment news channel detailing Richie Tozier’s strange behaviour, explaining that he had run off stage on the night’s episode of _Saturday Night Live_, vanished without a trace, and was now ignoring his manager’s calls.

Changing the channel, Mike sees a picture of Bill Denbrough’s face plastered on the screen. Apparently, he’d run out on the set of his most recent book-to-film adaptation, and now he wasn’t accepting any calls – from the director, from his publicist, from his editor, or from his wife. His parents had elected not to comment when asked if their son had been in touch, but knowing the Denbroughs, Mike figures this is no indication of anything either way.

Another changing of the channel lands him on _TMZ._ There’s a picture of Beverly, her hair damp, hood pulled up in a weak attempt to obscure her face, sitting in an airport. Her fingers are wrapped tightly around a cup of coffee, and the edge of a bruise peeks out from under her hood. The hosts are speculating on what she could possibly be doing.

One of them insists she’s having an affair.

Feeling frustrated and a little guilty, Mike turns the TV back off, sitting in the dark. On the one hand, this means that at least _most_ of the Losers are making good on their promise, which is honestly better than Mike could have dreamed.

On the other, he had really hoped that they would try not to draw so much attention themselves. Though he supposes he can’t be too picky.

“Well,” he says to himself, sighing as he stands up and goes to get ready for bed. “At least now I know they got the message.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i definitely did not 100% write up my own transcript of all the phone call scenes to use as a base for this. (yes i did)
> 
> also, im gonna start posting on sundays specifically. at least, thats what im gonna be aiming for, but i think itll probably work out since it gives me time to write during the week + saturday


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Losers arrive at The Jade of the Orient, and they catch up with the friends they don't remember forgetting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a quick note: for my own purposes, i swapped a couple of seats. the seating order is important because of some interactions and internal narration, so in case it gets confusing it's basically like this:
> 
> Eddie Mike Bill  
Stan ( t a b l e ) Ben  
Richie Beverly
> 
> with stan's seat being empty at the beginning

Bill climbs out of his car, looking up at the brightly-lit front of the restaurant Mike had asked to meet at. It’s a Chinese place – The Jade of the Orient. Bill hums to himself and crosses the vast parking lot.

As soon as he gets in the door, he can tell this place is just as fancy as the outside would have onlookers believe – which is to say, _very_. He walks up to the hostess’ podium, addressing a tired looking young woman.

“Welcome to The Jade of the Orient,” she says, more enthusiastically than Bill would’ve expected, smiling warmly. “How can I help you this evening?”

“Uh, I’m here to m—” Bill clears his throat, smiling nervously. “Meet someone, he should have made reservations for seven?”

The young woman looks down at something behind the podium. Bill has to hold back a scoff. Who else in Derry, Maine is making a reservation for seven at The Jade of the Orient after four in the afternoon?

“What’s the name?”

“Hanlon,” Bill says. He spells it for her, just to be safe, and she finds it quickly.

“Follow me right this way,” she says, giving Bill barely a moment to process her command before turning and walking off. Bill follows.

They twist and wind between tables and past booths, nearer and nearer to the back of the restaurant, until they reach a small area enclosed by half-walls and lattices. The hostess steps down with practised ease, and Bill stumbles over the low step, which he hadn’t noticed before.

“Whoa,” he yelps, pinwheeling his arms slightly as he rights himself.

The hostess looks back over her shoulder at him briefly and says, “Careful,” before turning back and dodging a low table. She points past it. “This way.”

“Uh,” Bill says awkwardly as he passes her. “Thanks a lot.”

She leaves as soon as she’s satisfied that he’s where he should be, leaving him to examine the gong and the high table it’s sitting on.

A voice from behind him says, “Hey.”

Bill starts, turning and finding Mike standing on the other side of the room, next to a huge fish tank. He takes a deep breath to try and soothe his racing heart.

“Oh, f-f—”

Mike grins, jogging the distance. Bill can’t help but smile back, something deep inside being warmed at the sight of him.

“Mike—”

“Ya look good!” Mike says, and then Bill suddenly finds himself engulfed in a hug. He stiffens, unused to the contact and unsure what to do, before some learned, long forgotten instinct compels him to return the embrace. He tries to imagine what kind of picture they must make: Mike, squeezing the life out of a man a head shorter than him, and Bill, hugging Mike back with what he suspects is a look of utter bewilderment on his face.

Not knowing how to proceed, Bill says, “Hey, how ya doin’?”

Mike lets go, and Bill’s animal brain drives him to back up, putting about a foot of space between them and moving every time Mike comes closer.

“H-Hi!” Mike greets, chuckling warmly. Then, gesticulating wildly with his hands, he says, “I didn’t know if any of you would come through for me, after all this time, but of course _you_ came.” His voice is full of glee and an almost manic energy.

Bill wonders what he means by that (“of course _you_ came,” so pointedly, like Mike shouldn’t have even been worried), but doesn’t ask. He figures it’ll come back to him just like everything else has been: slowly but surely, and with Bill being powerless to stop it if he tried.

“An oath is an oath,” Bill replies finally. “Losers… Gotta stick together, right?”

Mike seems surprised – pleasantly so. He nods. “Losers. You remember that.” He points briefly to punctuate his next sentence, “That’s good. What else do you remember?”

_Not a whole heck of a lot,_ Bill’s about to say, when he hears a voice from behind him, quickly growing in volume and clarity as it approaches.

“—And I am allergic to soy,” Now, there’s really only one person _that_ can be. “Anything that has egg in it, uh, gluten, and if I eat a cashew I could—"

Eddie freezes as he catches sight of Bill and Mike, fingers still held up ticking off his food allergies.

“…Realistically die,” Eddie finishes, softer than before.

The three of them stare at each other for a moment. The hostess, seeing her chance to escape Eddie, hurries back to her post at the front of the restaurant. Eddie doesn’t even notice.

“Holy _shit,_” Eddie says.

* * *

Beverly crosses the parking lot of The Jade of the Orient slowly. She’s afraid that if she moves too quickly, she’ll wake up and find herself back at home, realising that none of the past day was real.

A silly thought, maybe. But one can’t fault her for being afraid.

Beverly adjusts the shoulder strap of her purse, tugging it higher up on her shoulder, and tucks her hair behind her ear absently as she comes to stand in front of the restaurant’s front door.

If she goes in here, there’s no going back. She doesn’t want to go back, but she’s not sure yet if she’s ready to move forward, either.

She’s so focused on her staring contest with the door that she doesn’t notice at first when someone comes up behind her. She doesn’t notice until he speaks.

“Is there a password or somethin’?”

Beverly doesn’t jump. She’s faced scarier things. (She has to keep reminding herself of that, every time she thinks of how Tom’s going to react when Beverly’s lawyer serves him the divorce papers.) She turns slowly to face him, every movement calculated.

She doesn’t recognise the man standing there. The colour of his hair is up for debate in the low light, and he’s wearing what Beverly thinks is a denim jacket over a white Henley, the top button of which is undone.

“I’m sor—” She begins, about to apologise for – something. She isn’t sure what. For blocking his way, probably. But then she takes a closer look at his face, at the way his hair falls, at the way he holds himself. It feels so familiar, but every time she tries to put the pieces together it’s like someone takes them and scrambles them up again.

The man shrugs sheepishly, hands still in his jacket pockets. “New kid.”

Just like that, it hits her. “_Ben?_”

He nods. Laughing, he says, “Yeah.”

“Oh my god,” Beverly murmurs, starting toward him. He echoes her as she reaches up (!!!) to wrap her arms around his neck. He has to lean down to hug her back.

“It’s been so _long!_” Ben says, and his voice is wet with happy tears.

Suddenly, a new voice cuts across their moment. “_Wow._” It’s one that Beverly recognises, which at first makes her think it’s not one of the other Losers, but when she turns, breaking free of Ben’s embrace, she finds that knows _exactly_ who she’s looking at. The strong arc of the nose, the specific sort of chaos with which those dark curls fall, the angle of the jaw, the impish glint behind those hazel eyes.

“You two look _amazing_,” Richie quips bitterly. “What the _fuck_ happened to me?”

Ben’s laughter begins as soft chortles before morphing into full, rich belly-laughs. As Richie steps toward him, Ben greets him through his continued laughter.

“Hey man!”

“Richie,” Richie says, by way of explanation, indicating himself with his hands in his pockets much the same way Ben had done. It’s not necessary, of course, but they still humour him. Ben pulls Richie into a hug, and Richie’s eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline, but he returns it, nonetheless.

“Yeah,” Ben adds. “And Ben.”

They slap each other on the back, laughing gleefully. When Richie pulls away, he turns to Beverly, smiling warmly.

“Hi,” he says coyly.

_A hundred shared cigarettes, soft conversations, confiding secrets far darker than any thirteen-year-old should have to bear. The warmth of a familiar embrace, a touch that came without any expectations. The easy humour; he made everything feel so easy._

_They always thought they must have been twins in another life._

“Hey!” Beverly squeals excitedly, pulling him into a hug herself. She squeezes him extra hard, hoping he can feel the love pouring into him through it, hoping he can feel the twenty-seven years that she missed him like a phantom limb without even remembering she had someone to miss.

_I’ve missed my boys,_ she thinks fiercely.

When all the hugging is over, Richie says, “All right, all right, that’s enough hugging. Jesus, what, are we on a fucking daytime talk show or some shit?”

Beverly lets him go, and she doesn’t call him on it when he tries to wipe his eyes under his glasses without the other two noticing.

Ben interjects with, “We should probably head inside. I’m sure the others are all waiting for us.”

“Of course they are,” Richie says matter-of-factly. “The party doesn’t start without me.”

Beverly rolls her eyes good-naturedly, hikes her purse higher up on her shoulder, and slings an arm around Richie, turning the both of them and guiding him toward the front door to the restaurant.

Despite his earlier comment about hugging, he doesn’t say a word against the contact.

* * *

Once they finally get past the (as Eddie had so accurately put it) ‘holy shit’ moment of being face-to-face for the first time in almost thirty years, Mike, Bill, and Eddie are talking and laughing like old friends – or, at least, like old friends who didn’t have their memories of each other and their own childhoods forcibly erased by some unknown entity.

Eddie’s still trying not to think about that. He’s pretty sure if he lingers on it for too long, he’ll probably have a complete psychological break.

At any rate, Not Thinking About Things is pretty easy in present company; they’re playing catch-up with each other (as though the three of them don’t know Bill is on the _New York Times’ Bestsellers_ list) and recounting old stories from their adolescence, which isn’t quite as stressful as Eddie imagined it would be. A lot of the stories are about dreadfully normal things, like going swimming at the Quarry or eating ice cream together in Monument Square during one of the hottest Derry summers they had ever experienced.

Bill is in the middle of reminiscing on the time after he first got his twelve-speed bicycle, Silver, and almost rode into oncoming traffic because he hadn’t realised how fast it would be, when the large gong on the other side of the room sounds loudly.

The three of them turn around, and they find three people standing next to said gong – a red-haired woman who can only be Beverly, a tall dirty-blonde man in a denim jacket, and—

_Oh sweet Jesus. It’s _him.

The third person is another tall man, but this man has dark, wavy hair, and he’s wearing a leather jacket over a printed yellow shirt, the top of which is open to reveal the dark grey t-shirt underneath. He’s the one who rang the gong. He’s also the comedian Eddie has been nigh-obsessed with for the past month. And the worst part is, it’s _Richie fucking Tozier._

_God, _that’s embarrassing.

“This meeting of the Loser’s Club has officially begun,” Richie announces.

“Heh, look at these guys!” Eddie says, his mouth running without consulting his brain. There’s a brief, awkward pause after he says it, and he suddenly desperately wishes he had been born a turtle, so he had the option of retreating into his shell when things got uncomfortable.

Then, as though he can read Eddie’s mind and knows someone needs to diffuse the tension lest Eddie die of embarrassment, Richie (who is, at this point, standing out of the tall blonde’s line of sight) points, mouthing, _Ben._ He puffs out his cheeks and holds his arms out at his sides before pointing again.

The blonde (_Ben,_ Eddie corrects in his head, though in all honesty he’s having some trouble believing it), possibly sensing movement in his periphery, turns his head just in time to see Richie slipping his hands back into his jacket pockets. When Richie notices him looking, he flashes Ben a toothy smile.

Bill clears his throat, and Eddie jumps, having forgotten there were people standing next to him. “Good to see you still know how to make an entrance, Richie,” he teases good-naturedly, “but seeing as not all of us are _here yet,_ I think we should probably wait a little longer before saying anything’s ‘officially begun.’” Bill nudges Mike. “Right?”

Mike shakes his head. “Stan’s gonna be a little late. His flight got delayed.”

“How late are we talking?” Ben asks, and okay, _wow._ Puberty hit this guy like a goddamn _train._

“About an hour,” Mike says. “He said we could go ahead and get started without him as long as we fill him in once he gets here.”

Richie makes a considering face and then shrugs. “Sounds good to me.”

The others make various noises of assent, and the six of them seat themselves at the large table, which Eddie suspects might actually be two tables that have been pushed together.

Almost as soon as they’re settled, scanning the menus and conversing about their choices, a member of the staff appears, her hair pulled back into a high ponytail and no fewer than six pens hooked into the pocket on her short apron. She takes their orders with impressive enthusiasm before collecting their menus, one of which they leave on the table after explaining that they have one more person yet to join their party.

Eddie doesn’t have time to agonise over whether the food preparation is up to code or whether the staff here knows the proper hand washing technique before the first round of drinks is being served, and the Losers are toasting to nothing at all.

* * *

Ben watches as Richie picks his glass up using only his mouth, tossing his head back to slam the drink therein. It’s a rather impressive show of dexterity, but not one that he can say was wholly unexpected or out of character.

Once Richie’s glass is empty, he drops it carelessly onto the table. He licks his lips, a glint in his eye that Ben recognises as a sign that he’s revving up his motormouth.

“So wait, Eddie,” Richie says, “You got _married?_”

_Here we go…_

Eddie sets his jaw. “Yeah? Why’s that so fucking funny, dickwad?”

Richie looks at him blandly. “What, like, to a _woman?_”

Eddie’s frown deepens, which Ben hadn’t believed was possible. “Fuck you, bro,” he says, jabbing the air in Richie’s direction with one of his chopsticks.

There’s a twinkle in Richie’s eye at Eddie’s response. He laughs, open-mouthed, before replying, “Fuck _you!_”

Ben rolls his eyes fondly, sipping his beer as he watches the interaction with something like detached interest.

He wonders if this is how Stan felt when he watched documentaries about animal mating rituals.

Bill leans against the table, a smile pulling up one corner of his mouth. “All right, what about you, Trashmouth? You married?” He asks it like it’s a challenge, but also like he already knows the answer. Ben supposes there’s a chance he might; he’d already forgotten that Richie is _famous,_ that major aspects of his life are considered public knowledge because of his career.

“There’s no _way_ Richie’s married—” Bev says firmly, while Richie cuts across her, saying, “No, I am! I am!”

Shocked, Bev swivels her head to gape at Richie. “_What?_”

Richie’s eyes are wide, no trace of humour on his face as he says, “No, I got married.”

Eddie, sitting across from Richie, has an odd expression on his face. “When?” He asks.

Ben tries to stifle his grin, only somewhat successfully. Richie may be a fantastic actor, but despite the artfully constructed mask of sincerity on his face, Ben can see the mirth dancing in his eyes. There’s no way he’s being serious; Ben would bet money on that. But, well… He doesn’t see what harm a joke could possibly do, so he decides that he’ll let Richie have his fun.

Richie stares directly at Eddie, arching his brows. “Did you not hear this?”

Eddie looks confused. “No.”

“Did you not know I got married?”

It almost looks, for a moment, like Eddie might be catching on, but that moment is gone as soon it appears. “No.”

Richie is clearly working very hard to conceal his delight. His eyes dart toward Bill, who’s taking a sip of his beer. “No, me and your mom are very, very happy together—”

Bev bursts into peals of surprised laughter. She lays a hand on Ben’s arm, and his skin burns from the contact, despite the fact that she isn’t actually touching his skin, only his jacket.

As for Bill, it immediately becomes abundantly clear why Richie had timed that punchline the way he did: Bill’s own laughter had come mid-sip and resulted in beer being sent splashing up onto his face. As he carefully places his glass back on the table, he cups one hand under his nose, which has beer dripping off of it.

Eddie, perhaps the only person at the table who didn’t find the joke funny, seethes silently as he watches his friends lose it.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Bill mutters.

Richie is completely beside himself with glee. His whole body is shaking with the force of his laughter, his eyes squinting, and he reaches up with the heel of one hand to rub away tears.

“He totally fell for it!” Richie howls.

Eddie glares at him. “Fuck you.”

As his laughter begins to die down, Richie continues: “She’s very sweet, sometimes—sometimes, she’ll put her arm around me,” he mimes putting his arm around someone, “and she’ll whisper to me, she’ll go—” Richie puts on what Ben recognises as a Jabba the Hutt impression, and everyone (minus Eddie) loses their minds all over again, including Richie himself toward the end.

Eddie, on the other hand, seems to have had enough. “We _all_ get it,” he says sharply, throwing his hands in the air. “My mom is a great big fat person! _Hilarious_,” he bites out sarcastically, rolling his eyes up toward the ceiling with so much force Ben is almost afraid for his health. “_Hysterical!_”

Bev has gone red in the face, from both trying to hold back laughter and the subsequent choking that followed when it turned out she couldn’t quite manage it. Ben’s cheeks hurt from smiling; he’s pretty sure the last time he felt this completely, unadulteratedly _happy_ was before he left Derry.

Eventually, the laughter dies down into a contented silence. Everyone seems a little lighter, even Eddie, as they each take small bites of their food, trying to make it last as long as possible.

Bill tilts his glass in Richie’s direction, pointing with his index finger as he says, “Dude, you’ve gotten so much better at the Voices.”

Richie waves a hand. “You’re too kind, William.”

Bill shakes his head and takes a quick sip of his beer before putting it down to free up his hands. “No, man, I’m serious,” he says earnestly. “I’ve seen you on _SNL, _you’re like, crazy good now.”

Richie perks up almost imperceptibly. “You’ve watched _SNL?_”

Bill nods emphatically. Ben can see the sincerity in his expression, can tell how much Bill _needs_ Richie to hear what Bill has to say. “Dude, I started watching, like… Two years ago? It’s like my go-to when I wanna destress. It’s funny as hell, man, seriously.”

Richie smiles sheepishly, an expression Ben isn’t used to associating with Richie. “That’s all the writers, dude. I just read what they give me.”

Ben reaches around Bev to punch Richie lightly on the arm. “Don’t sell yourself short, man. Without the actors, the script is just words. Sure, it’s still _funny,_ but it doesn’t mean nearly as much.”

Richie shrugs, effectively ending the conversation.

As Bill is refilling Mike’s glass, Richie suddenly says, “Wait, let’s talk about the elephant _not_ in the room,” and Ben has to resist the urge to take a grounding breath. Richie gestures in Ben’s direction with both hands. “Ben. Whatthefuck, man?”

Ben sighs, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth despite himself. “Okay, okay, obviously I lost a few pounds.”

The other Losers utter various agreements, the loudest being Eddie’s, “Fuck _yeah, _you lost a few pounds.”

Richie bobs his head. “You’re like, uh…” He holds up his hands. “You’re _hot._”

“It’s true,” mutters Bill, nodding firmly as he lifts some noodles to his mouth.

Richie cocks his head after a moment, his eyes narrowing with consideration. “No, you’re like every Brazilian soccer player wrapped up into one person. _Gorgeous!_”

Ben feels a flush rising in his cheeks at the praise, and he ducks his head with a sheepish smile.

From Ben’s left, Bev interjects with, “Leave him alone, you’re embarrassing ‘im.” Then, she gets a devilish look in her eye. “Besides, _Richard_—”

“Uh oh,” Richie says.

“We haven’t even talked about _you_—”

Richie folds his arms and squints. “I don’t like where this is going.”

Bev smiles slyly at him. “Are you or are you not hosting this year’s Emmy Awards?”

The tips of Richie’s ears turn pink as the rest of the table reacts in various ways. Most notable is Eddie’s reaction, which is: “They’re letting _you_ host the Emmy’s? Are they just picking people at random now? _Jesus._”

Heaving a dramatic sigh, Richie waves a hand and says, “All right, all right, ya got me. Yes, _Beverly,_” he pointedly says Bev’s given name, the same way she had with him. “I am in fact hosting the Emmy’s this year.”

“And a certain fashion designer was called in to put together your ensemble for the night, no?” Bev asks innocently, leaning to rest her chin on her hand.

Richie squints at her again before his eyes go wide. “Holy _shit,_” he utters, looking at Bev as though he’s seeing her for the first time. “That was _you?_”

Bev smiles, waving her fingers at him. “It was me.”

“Y’know, I heard you might also be _getting_ an Emmy this year,” Mike says casually. “Care to comment on that, Rich?”

The other Losers seem to be very interested in what Richie has to say on the matter – Ben included – but after a second of hesitation, Richie makes a face and shakes his head.

“I’m not really supposed to talk about it with anybody outside of, like, my manager,” he admits. “And even we don’t talk about it, to be honest. So I’m just gonna leave it at that.”

The Losers put up some token complaints, but they leave Richie be on the matter. Ben turns to Mike and says, “Any updates from Stan?”

Mike slides his phone out of his pocket and checks it, before announcing that Stan is on his way, with an estimated arrival time of ten minutes from now.

“Thank god,” Ben says. “He’s probably the only one of us who hasn’t totally lost it.”

“What, hoping he’ll balance out all the crazy?” Eddie asks with a snort.

“More like I’m hoping he’ll save me from all of you,” Ben jokes with a smile.

“Newsflash: Stan was so done with our shit most of the time he couldn’t be bothered to try and keep us in check, I doubt twenty-seven years has done anything to change that. And why would _Stanley_ save you, anyway?” Eddie has a look of realisation on his face, accompanied by the excitement of a new memory. “Was I not the one who basically performed surgery, here? After Bowers—”

The memory – not a happy one, per se, but one that led to happiness – hits Ben almost as soon as it seems to finish fully forming in Eddie’s mind. “Yes!”

“—Cut you up!” Eddie finishes. He slaps his hands against the table. “Holy shit, that’s right!”

“Please tell me you ended up becomin’ a doctor, Eds,” Bev murmurs. She has her hand resting, flat, over the mouth of her beer, and her chin is resting on the back of her hand. She has a wistful look on her face. (Ben tries not to think that she’s beautiful. He really, really tries. He isn’t very successful.)

Eddie’s smile drops. “No, uh,” he begins as he leans back, fiddling with whatever he can reach before settling on folding his arms. “I ended up becoming a risk analyst.”

Richie sits forward. His eyebrows are arched, eyes widened, as he leans toward Eddie, the picture of interest. Ben doesn’t buy it for a second. “Oh, that sounds really interesting! W-What does that entail?” Once he’s sure everyone else has bought into what Ben knows to be the setup for another bit, Richie leans back, apparently unconsciously mirroring Eddie’s posture.

Eddie blinks, looking surprised, but not in an unpleasant way. He shifts a bit in his chair, laying a hand on the table. When he speaks, he doesn’t lift his head to look at anyone. “Yeah, so, I work for like a big insurance firm, and, uh—”

A loud, long snore emanates from the other side of the table. Eddie looks up.

Richie has his head thrown backward over the back of his chair, his jaw slack as he pretends to have fallen asleep. After a moment of increasingly enraged silence, he “awakens” with a sniff, looking rumpled.

Ben sees a muscle in Eddie’s jaw twinge.

“Fuck you, dude,” Eddie says, with feeling. “Fuck you.”

“Was this job invented before fun?” Richie asks seriously.

Bill snorts. Eddie’s eyes dart over in his direction for a second, his scowl deepening, before he returns the full force of his glare to Richie.

“Oh, that’s _so_ not funny—”

Richie grins. “It IS funny!”

The rest of the Losers lose their composure – except, of course, for Bev, who is watching the scene unfold around her with a fond smile, her eyes looking suspiciously wet. Richie looks entirely too pleased with himself, and Bill and Mike are laughing like this is the funniest thing that’s happened, _ever._

Unable to help himself, Ben chortles softly, trying to muffle the sound behind his hand. It’s not enough to keep Eddie from noticing, however; Eddie turns on Ben, his dark eyes wide and full of hatred.

“What the fuck are YOU laughin’ at?”

This sets Ben off all over again, his laughter growing until he’s wiping tears from the corners of his eyes.

Once she’s, apparently, had enough of watching her gaggle of idiots squawking at each other, Bev interrupts the boisterous laughter with, “I propose a toast…” She holds up her beer, and says softly, “To the Losers.”

The others quickly hoist their drinks (or, in some cases, what remain of them) to clink their various bottles and glasses at the centre of the table, echoing Bev’s proclamation.

Ben catches himself looking at her and quickly redirects his gaze to the table.

* * *

Richie isn’t sure exactly what sparked it, honestly. The most likely culprit is the idle conversation about fitness routines that Ben and Eddie had started.

Yes, now that he thinks about it, that _must_ be what it was; Richie had casually mentioned that he had just gotten a personal trainer for a show he was working on, and Eddie…

Eddie _scoffed._

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Eddie says breezily. “You just, you know, suck at following directions, and don’t listen when people tell you to do things, and you definitely aren’t one to stick to a routine,” he shrugs blithely. “That’s all.”

Richie doesn’t reply. He affixes a carefully blank, neutral look to his face and gazes at a point somewhere over Eddie’s shoulder.

Eddie’s smug look (and he should feel smug, really, he got off a good one, if Richie wasn’t doing a bit he would tell him how proud he is) drops from his face immediately.

“Shit, dude, I didn’t—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, it isn’t true,” Eddie says, his expression pained.

Richie’s mouth twitches. He manages to hold out for another two full seconds before he cracks, his face splitting into a wide grin.

As soon as Eddie sees this, he appears to go through a gamut of emotions, beginning with confusion and landing on something that looked quick a bit like he’s just taken a bite of something particularly sour.

“That was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, I just want you to know that,” Richie says, through the laughter that’s begun to bubble out of him like a pot that’s boiling over. “Eddie Spaghetti got off on a good one!” He crows. “Your first win of the night!”

A dark look settles over Eddie’s face, and suddenly, he stands. The others fall silent as they watch him make his way over to the empty seat next to Richie’s, rolling up his sleeves before he pulls the chair out and drops into it. He places his elbow on the table before him, left arm held aloft with the fingers outstretched.

Richie blinks owlishly at him. Adjusting his glasses, he says, “Uh, what—”

“Arm wrestle me,” Eddie says. Commands. Richie’s eyebrows make a run for his hairline as he searches Eddie’s face for any indication that Eddie is joking, but he finds none. “Prove that you’ve been putting that fancy personal trainer to good use.”

“Oh-kay then,” Richie says. He shrugged out of his jacket twenty minutes ago, so he doesn’t have any sleeves to roll up, but he makes a show of rolling his neck and doing a couple brief stretches. And then.

And then. He takes Eddie’s hand.

(Never mind the fact that they’re _arm wrestling,_ the fact that he’s currently holding hands with Eddie is almost more than he can bare. He feels his ears starting to heat up again and he prays that nobody notices.)

Eddie says, without looking away from Richie, “Somebody count us off.”

Mike leans across the table to place one of his hands over both of theirs.

“One… Two… Three!” With a flourish, Mike removes his hand, and Eddie immediately begins trying to force Richie’s hand to the table.

Richie is surprised to find that it isn’t as hard as he expected it would be. Either Eddie, even with all his rage to fuel him, isn’t as strong as he thought, or that personal trainer really is working wonders. After a brief struggle (which is mostly to make things look interesting, because Richie is a performer before he’s anything else) Richie has Eddie’s arm pinned to the table.

There’s a moment of shocked silence. Then, a voice drifts over from the direction of the entryway:

“Clearly I’m missing something here.”

The Losers all turn in perfect synchronisation to see Stan, next to whom is standing a different hostess than had escorted them all to their table. She has a strange look on her face, her eyes fixed on where Eddie and Richie are still grasping hands, and when Richie makes the connection he quickly releases Eddie, feeling a blush creep up his neck.

In an effort to conceal his embarrassment, he throws on a Voice, saying, “Well, bugger me! If it isn’t our very own Stanley the Manly!” He stands, bowing shortly and moving around the table. He comes to stand in front of Stan, taking one of Stan’s hands in both of his own and shaking it with gusto. “A real pleasure, truly, wot.”

Stan grins at him. “Hey, Richie.” There’s no trace of doubt in his voice, nor should there be; Richie knows he’s one of the easiest of their lot to recognise on sight, and that’s how he likes it to be.

“Stan,” someone breathes from behind them, and all of a sudden the other Losers are upon them in an instant, talking over each other, slapping Stan on the back and slinging arms around his neck.

“Okay, okay, you godless heathens,” he says after a few minutes of this treatment, laughing and grinning so hard he can barely get the words out. “Get off me, I need air.”

They escort him, as a unit, over to the table. Richie, bowing low, pulls out the empty chair for him with a flourish, and he slides into it, scooting closer to the table himself before Richie has a chance to push it in.

“So what was that I walked in on?” Stan asks. Richie notes that this new hostess has quickly learned the same the thing the previous one had, and she’s long gone.

“What you walked in on, dear Staniel,” Richie says, “was me kicking Eds’ ass.” He flexes, feeling a little silly while he does it, but not in a wholly bad way.

Stan opens his mouth, likely about to ask for clarification, before he seems to decide something within himself and he sighs instead. “I don’t think I wanna know, do I.”

It’s a statement, not a question, but Richie answers it anyway. “Well, it all started when Benjamin – yeah, the absolute _hunk_ over there is little Benny Ben, can you _believe_ it? – anyway, it started when he and Eduardo started talking about their workout regimens…”

* * *

Stan doesn’t remember the last time he enjoyed himself this much, or at the very least, he doesn’t remember the last time he enjoyed himself this much with other people present.

At first, he didn’t want to believe that that were the case – he has friends back in Atlanta, and he has Patty, and he loves spending time with _them,_ but this is a different feeling entirely from how he feels going to work mixers or getting drinks with co-workers or going out on date nights with his wife. This is an overwhelming feeling of _safe,_ of happiness, of… Well, _love,_ he supposes. A different type of love, an older love, but love, nonetheless.

Stan returns from his internal monologue to find Richie and Beverly leaning toward each other, eyes half-lidded. For a split second, it actually looks like they’re going to kiss, but right when Richie is close enough that they’re sharing the same breath, Bev smiles wickedly and brings her hand up from the table, jabbing at Richie with her chopsticks. Richie lunges away as the rest of the Losers – Stan included – cheer raucously at their antics. Richie gives Bev a wounded look, pouting and placing a hand over his heart, and she titters at him, pulling him back toward her and stretching up to press a kiss to the side of his head.

Stan catches Eddie, out the corner of his eye, looking at them with a strange look on his face, and he smiles smugly to himself as he identifies it. _Longing._

One of the wait staff comes out with a huge, heavy-looking tray, loaded with bowls of various food items. She places it on a large lazy Susan that Stan hadn’t noticed before, gets it spinning, and them gives them a little wave.

“Enjoy,” she says. As she’s leaving, she calls over her shoulder, “Let me know if there’s anything you need!”

The Losers help themselves to whatever looks good, reaching quickly and sometimes reaching over each other, none of them bothering to stop the lazy Susan’s revolution.

As they dig into their food with gusto, the table falls silent, aside from the occasional satisfied hum or the encouragement to try something particularly good. Soon enough, they’ve all but devoured everything in sight. By Stan’s estimation, it took about twenty-five minutes.

The waitress from before returns with another round of drinks, likely also looking to check on what Stan’s certain is the rowdiest group in the restaurant. When she notices that many of the bowls on the lazy Susan are empty, and the ones that aren’t are close to it, she blinks before plastering a smile onto her face.

“Well, that was pretty quick!” She places the tray on the table, in front of Ben, and distributes the beers and water among the Losers. As soon as she’s done, she picks the tray up, balancing it on her hip with one hand like she’s holding a toddler. “If everyone is done with the entrees, I’ll go ahead and bring out the fortune cookies?” She says, her tone making it into a question.

The Losers made general noises of agreement, and she gives a thumbs-up before hustling away.

Richie suddenly turns to Bev, laying an arm around her shoulders. “Well, well, well! Bevvie, you’ve got the physique of a willow tree and the stomach of a starving lumberjack!” He slips into a familiar Voice – the radio announcer – holding one of his chopsticks like it’s a microphone. “Watch out, Derry! It looks like you just may have an up-and-coming pie-eating contest champion in the making right under your very nose!” He thrusts the “microphone” under Bev’s nose. “Care to comment, Ms Marsh?”

Beverly smiles, rolling her eyes fondly as she pushes the chopstick out of her face. “It’s _Mrs_ Rogan-Marsh, actually,” she corrects. “And the only thing I have to comment on is that your breath is disgusting.”

“Rogan-Marsh?” Bill says. A touch of astonishment is creeping into his voice. “Like… _Rogan-Marsh,_ half-my-wife’s-closet, Rogan-Marsh?”

Bev nods, a sheepish smile on her face, and Bill smiles brilliantly at her. “That’s, that’s _huge._”

The waitress returns once more with a bowl of fortune cookies and several small plates. She takes the bowls from the lazy Susan with her and leaves the fortune cookies.

“That’s our line,” Bev says quietly. “Me and my…” she hesitates, looking away before finishing, even quieter than before, with, “husband Tom.”

Bill cocks his head. “How long you been married?”

An odd look comes over Bev’s face. Stan sees a mix of emotions there: discomfort, fear, and anger are the ones that stand out the most, but he also thinks he detects a hint of shame. The expression is locked behind a mask as quickly as Stan deciphers it.

“Hey, we saw your movie?” Bev is clearly deflecting, and she seems desperate for Bill to take the bait and change the subject.

Stan glances over at Ben and finds that Ben is watching the exchange between Bill and Beverly. Ben continues to watch for a moment before looking down at his empty plate, a melancholy expression on his face.

“Oh, you did?” Bill says, responding to Bev. Bev nods.

“Oh my god, it was—!” They smile as they realise that they’re speaking together. “—_So good!_” When Bill says the last part, it comes out as a question.

“It was so _scary,_” Bev adds.

Bill smiles, a little bitterly, lifting his glass to his mouth. “Aaand the ending sucked?”

Bev chuckles. She looks down for a moment, eyes closed, as though she’s debating what she should say next. Finally, she looks up at Bill again. “…Yeah, it did. I’m sorry,” she adds the last part when she sees the bittersweet amusement clear on Bill’s face.

Bill waves her off. “’S all right.”

The two look at each other for a while, smiling in a soft way. It almost makes Stan want to beat himself over the head with a shovel. Richie and Eddie are bickering, and Stan has half a mind to tell them that they’re on a path toward Death by Unresolved Sexual Tension.

_My friends are so fucking stupid. Oh my God. Is this why Christians rant and rave about Hell all the time? Is this Hell?_ Stan thinks, a bit hysterically.

Bill chuckles quietly to himself, averting his gaze after what feels like a decade of mutual staring.

“What?”

Bill scoffs. “This is just weird. All this—all these memories, people that I don’t even remember forgetting.”

Bev nods slowly.

“I mean, it’s weird, right?” Ben says suddenly, and everyone turns to look at him. “Now that we’re all here, everything just comes back faster, and faster—but not all of it.”

Stan hazards a glance at Mike. Mike looks like there’s something he wants to say, but he isn’t sure how to say it. Ultimately, he keeps quiet.

Richie swallows audibly. “D—yeah, you know when Mike called me, I threw up?” He looks around the table at the others before his brows furrow and he looks down. “Like, I got nervous? I got like, sick, and I threw up,” he finishes with a chuckle, looking up again.

Everyone is looking at Richie, now. Eddie especially looks a little concerned – perhaps wondering if Richie has a virus and should therefore be avoided at all costs, but Stan doesn’t really think that’s what it is.

(Once upon a time, he knows, he would have written it off as such, but having seen the way the two of them have been looking at each other when they think nobody else is watching... Well, it's both much more complicated and so much more simple than that.)

Mike, at hearing that Richie had thrown up, looks a little guilty.

“I feel fine now,” Richie continues. “I feel very relieved to be here with you guys.” It’s now that Richie seems to notice everyone staring at him, and he blinks a bit, visibly confused. “…Why’s everybody lookin’ at me like this?”

“Man, I hear ya,” Ben says. “I mean my heart was literally like,” he makes a fist and beats it lightly against his sternum. “Pounding, right outta my chest.”

Beverly looks stunned. “…I thought I was the only one,” she murmurs.

“It was like pure f-f-f…” Bill’s confusion and surprise would be humorous if it weren’t for the fact that he's also clearly distressed. “F-fe-fe—”

“Fear.” Mike interrupts when Bill cannot seem to get the word out. His eyes drift over the faces of the other six people sitting at the table. “It’s fear. What you felt.”

“Why’d we all f-feel like that, Mike?” Mike doesn’t respond, which seems to give Bill the answer he needs anyway. “You remember something we don’t, don’t you?”

“I…” Mike hesitates, staring down at the tablecloth. “Something happens to you when you leave this town. The further away, the hazier it all gets. But me…” Mike looks up at Bill, using him as a grounding point. “I never left. So yeah, I remember. I remember all of it.”

There’s a brief, stunned silence, before Bev gasps, “_Pennywise._”

Mike looks at her sharply. Bill does, too, but it’s clear to Stan that it’s for a different reason; Mike is surprised that Bev remembered, whereas Bill is shocked at the sound of a name he didn’t even know he knew.

Eddie shudders. “Oh, the fucking clown.” He starts to wheeze, and he mutters to himself as he searches his pockets for something.

Across the table, barely audible, Richie murmurs, “Oh, shit.” All the colour has drained from his face, and as he reaches one hand up to cover his mouth, Stan can see that it’s shaking.

Stan doesn’t have the same epiphany moment as the others. He directs his gaze to the lazy Susan guiltily, though he isn’t sure what reason he has to feel guilty. It isn’t _his_ fault he remembered immediately. It _isn’t_ his fault.

(Somehow, he’s not able to convince himself.)

* * *

“Mike,” Bill says, his tone suspicious. “You said you wanted our help with something. What was that?”

Mike swallows. He feels the weight of six pairs of eyes on him. He licks his lips nervously before he launches into his explanation, the one he’s been practicing since yesterday.

“There’s an echo, here in Derry, that bounces back—”

“What?”

Mike ignores Richie’s voice, steamrolling on. “Every twenty-seven years—”

“What are you talking about?” Eddie, this time.

“Hold on,” Mike says, holding up a hand. “Listen—”

“No, I don’t—”

Mike continues anyway. He can hear the desperation in his own voice. “We thought we stopped it, back then, all right. We thought it was done, but…” He opens his notebook, flipping through until he finds the right page.

“Mike…” Richie says weakly.

Mike barely hears him over the sound of blood rushing in his own ears. “A week ago, a man, Adrian Mellon, slaughtered.”

“Mike—”

Next to Mike, Bill straightens in his seat, eyes wide. “Whoa, _what?_”

“A girl, Lisa Albrecht, the other night, went missing!”

Mike glances up and sees Beverly, horrified, her mouth hanging open in shock. He swallows against the guilt rising in his gut and continues, tapping his finger against the paper in front of him. “There’s already been others, and there _will_ be more.”

Bill shakes his head, disbelieving. When he opens his mouth to speak, it’s drowned out by Eddie, saying, “I don’t wanna hear about this, man. I don’t wanna hear about this.”

Mike keeps going, but he can’t even hear his own voice over the five other voices, each of them rising in volume. Stan is the only one who isn’t trying to make Mike stop, but he’s gone as white as a sheet, and Mike can tell that he’s trembling.

Suddenly, Ben cuts across the cacophony. “All right, calm down!”

“It’s okay,” Bill is saying, putting a hand on Mike’s shoulder and squeezing. “Let’s just get another drink—”

“Let him explain,” Ben says firmly. He looks at Mike, and he must see how overwhelmed he feels. “Let him explain,” he repeats, softer this time.

Mike takes a deep breath. “That echo? We might’ve changed it, just like _it_ changed _us,_ but we didn’t stop it, because it just bounced back.” Here, he pauses, surveying the other six carefully. “We made an oath. That’s why I brought you back, that’s why you’re here. To finish it.” His eyes once again fall on Stan, whose eyes are squeezed shut, like he’s hoping when he opens them, he’ll wake up and find that all of this has been a bad dream. “For good.”

There’s a heavy pause. It seems like nobody knows what to say, now, especially not with the mounting tension still steadily rising.

“Well that shit got dark fast,” Richie says, breaking the silence with a quip as easily as he always has. It makes Mike want to smile, but he can’t seem to make his face do it. “Thanks Mike.”

They all reach for the fortune cookies in the centre of the table, not bothering with the plates. Eddie is the first to crack his open, removing the fortune from the cookie eagerly, but when he turns it over and reveals what it says, he frowns and shakes his head.

“My fortune cookie just says ‘could,’” he says.

Next to Mike, Bill is crunching quietly on his own cookie, staring pensively at the fortune in his hand.

Richie is the next to speak up. “They don’t know how to do fortune cookies here,” he says, turning his fortune around to show the others, the single word printed in red. “Mine just says ‘all.’”

Mike opens his cookie. His fortune, also in red, says ‘It.’ His jaw clenches.

Bill looks up from his fortune. “You wanna throw that over here?”

Richie and Eddie share a look before shrugging and nodding. They each put their fortunes on the table, sliding them across to Bill. Ben, Beverly, and Stan add their own.

Bill stands, moving his beer further onto the table, and exhales heavily. Mike holds his fortune out, and Bill takes it. He stares at the fortunes for a moment. Then, he arranges them into a phrase.

_So Glad You All Could Make It_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these chapters keep getting longer and longer because i have absolutely no self control
> 
> also thank you to everyone who comments/leaves kudos!! it really makes my day
> 
> (edit: it was pointed out to me in the comments that i accidentally left in the line about eddie crashing his car. in all honesty, i forgot that i changed eddie's phone call scene that drastically, so i didnt make a note to change that line. i went ahead and fixed it, but if nobody had pointed it out, i wouldnt have realised there was a problem. please feel free to let me know if anything like that happens again!)


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting seriously freaky. The Losers all have one question: what the _fuck_, Mike?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally the rest of the restaurant scene + a little after was supposed to be part of the last chapter, but when the word count on that one hit 8570 words i decided maybe i should split them up lol.

_So Glad You All Could Make It_

Richie takes a deep breath, standing up and reading it out loud. “What the—”

“It’s a message,” Mike says softly, and even he’s not sure if he was saying it to the others or to himself.

Eddie looks at Mike, panic in his eyes. “This is fuckin’ weird.”

Mike looks at Bill, the only one who he knows will listen. “That’s what I’m talking about.” He points at the fortunes. “_That’s_ what I’m talking about.”

“Did you fuck with the fortune cookies, Mike?” Richie asks.

“No!” Mike says, his voice rising in volume almost against his will. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to stay calm despite the rising panic he can feel. “This is—”

Richie cuts him off, but Ben holds a hand out to him, brows furrowed.

“Whoa, let him _speak_ now, man!”

Mike shoots him a grateful look. “This is _not_ me; this is what—_It_ does.”

Eddie is patting himself down again. “I need my FUCKIN’ inhaler!”

Eyes darting between Eddie and Mike, Richie says, “What is _wrong_ with you, man? Why’d you call us?”

Stan scrubs a hand over his face, sighing as he watches the chaos around him without a word. Mike, as glad as he is that Stan isn’t yelling at him too, wishes that Stan would take his side. He knows Stan remembers more than the others; he knows Stan could confirm that what he’s saying is true. But Stan remains silent.

Richie says, “This is not fuckin’ funny!” at the same time Eddie says, “This is _so_—not funny!” Eddie, perhaps trying to reiterate his point, says again, “This is so not funny!”

“What the fuck does this mean? Why—Why is this happening?” Eddie asks. Nobody responds. Desperately, Eddie cries, “Will someone else fuckin’ answer me!”

Mike shrugs heavily, his hands lying flat, palm-up on the table. He opens his mouth to say that he doesn’t know what it means, either, but before he can, the remaining cookies in the bowl begin to shake. Every one of the Losers jump and push back from the table simultaneously, eyes on the cookies, which are shuddering and clacking against each other.

One of the cookies seems to jump, leaving the bowl and landing beside it. Bev gasps.

Something breaks through one side of the cookie. It’s slimy and coloured a sickly grey, and it makes a low chirruping sound.

The Losers jump again, and most of those who were still seated either stand or scoot their chairs back further, trying to put more distance between themselves and whatever it is that’s about to emerge. Mike, however, is frozen, watching the… the _leg_ that’s cracked through the fortune cookie like he’s watching a train wreck in real-time: horrified, but unable to look away.

Richie lifts a hand to his forehead. Disbelieving, he gestures at the cookie, saying, “The fuck is that, man?” The thing, whatever it is, continues to break free from the cookie, and Richie murmurs, “Oh my god.” He looks like he’s going to be sick.

Now fully… _hatched?_ The creature from the cookie turns in Mike’s direction. It makes its strange, high-pitched noises, as shakes fluid from its wings.

“Whoa, whoa,” Bill says, looking at Mike, who is still unable to tear his gaze from the thing in front of him. It’s like a giant fly – or at any rate, some kind of insect, but its head…

It has the head of a _human baby._

The head, which until now has been upside down, eyes closed, twists into its proper place. The creature’s eyes open, and it lets out another sound, though this one is closer to the cry of a newborn.

It looks directly at Mike.

There’s a moment, a blessed moment, where Mike thinks that all it’s going to do is stare at him. Of course, he realises as it begins to move, he could never be that lucky.

The thing rears back on its hind legs, making its horrible screeching crying sounds, before it darts off of the lazy Susan, knocking over cups and bowls that are in its way.

The movement is finally enough for Mike to break free of his trance, and he leaps out of his chair, moving back as quickly as he can.

Two more cookies jump out of the bowl, each one landing in front of a person. When the one in front of Richie hits the table, it cracks slightly, revealing that whatever is inside of it is _red._

“Shit,” Richie says, jerking back.

The cookie opens, and an eyeball with long, thin tentacles oozes out, fluid gushing around it. It moves across the table in Richie’s direction, and Richie screams.

“HEY! HEY, THAT FORTUNE COOKIE’S LOOKIN’ AT ME!”

As the creature from the first cookie continues to crawl swiftly around the table and screech, another cookie cracks open, and what appears to be a _bat wing_ comes out. Eddie and Stan, who are huddled together, both back up. Stan stares with wide eyes. Eddie looks like he’s about to have a nervous breakdown, and Mike doesn’t blame him.

“I-I don’t wanna be here! I can’t fuckin’—I wanna go home,” Eddie whimpers, reaching up to bury his hands in his hair.

The bat wing flaps, and the cookie lifts up off the table before dropping back down. The creatures approach the Losers, some of whom – like Richie – have backed up against the wall and can move no further. The winged cookie lifts up once more and dives straight for Eddie and Stan, who beat at it with their hands, but seem unable to make contact with it.

Richie cries out for Eddie, his eyes wide. It’s clear that Richie wants to go to him, but he’s pinned to the wall by his own fear.

Molten liquid bubbles up past the remaining cookies in the bowl, spilling over and moving steadily outward. As it reaches the fortunes, still arranged in a neat line to show their message, the paper sizzles and burns. The final cookie breaks open, and a bird embryo crawls across the table, whining and screeching.

The bat, having apparently had enough of terrorising Eddie and Stan, now goes for Bill.

Mike looks on, wondering how things could have gone so wrong, when he hears singing coming from behind him. He turns, and yells when he sees the rotting head floating in the fish tank behind him. Bill, who is no longer being harassed by the bat, stumbles to one side, and he’s about to use the fish tank next to him to regain his balance when he, too, notices heads floating in the water.

Bill shouts wordlessly, before saying, “_FUCK_ they’re real!”

And then, all at once, it hits Mike. _This is all an illusion._

“It’s not real,” Mike says, barely above a whisper.

* * *

“It’s not real!” Mike yells.

The bug-baby-_thing_ halts its jittery movements, coming toward the edge of the table in Mike’s direction and hissing at him. If it had been Eddie, he’s not afraid to admit the sight probably would have made him piss his pants, but Mike gets this determined look on his face and grabs one of the chairs. He brings it down on the creature, which cries out in pain, but Mike doesn’t stop.

“It’s not real! _It’s not real!_” He keeps chanting, bringing the chair down on the table repeatedly.

Beverly backs up against the wall, covering her face with her hands.

As Mike continues his mantra, still beating the chair against the table, the hostess arrives seemingly out of nowhere and surveys the group with wide eyes.

“Is everything all right?” She asks hesitantly, almost like she doesn’t want to know the answer, and Eddie really doesn’t think they can fault her for that.

Mike stops hitting the table. He looks down, blinking hard, and sees the same thing Eddie sees, the same thing all of them must see: that none of the monsters or the oozing molten liquid from before are there anymore.

Awkwardly, Mike puts the chair down. All of the other Losers turn to face the hostess, unsure how to explain themselves.

“Yeah,” Richie finally answers. He sounds perfectly normal, if a little quiet, but his eyes are wide, and he’s still braced against the wall with his shoulders drawn up toward his ears. “Yeah, could we get the cheque?”

He mimes writing in the air as he makes his request, and the hostess nods warily. She stares at them a moment longer before turning and leaving. Richie flashes one more smile in her direction before she disappears around the corner, and then he lets his shoulders sag, his expression oddly vulnerable.

The Losers all take a moment to catch their breath. For a moment, the sound of breathing is all there is to hear. Then, almost simultaneously, they all look up and look around at each other.

And then they head for the exit.

* * *

“That’s what Pennywise does, right? He fucks with us, makes us all look crazy in public places and shit,” Eddie says.

Richie can’t help but notice that they’ve all closed ranks, forming a tight group with Richie himself and Stan in the middle.

Speaking of Stan, he’s pale, and he hasn’t stopped shaking. Richie puts an arm around his shoulder and squeezes, and Stan looks up at him, smiling weakly. Richie smiles back, fully aware that he probably doesn't look much better.

From behind them, a voice calls, “Hey, Richie!”

Richie stops, his arm dropping from Stan's shoulders, and turns to find a small boy standing in front of him, smiling.

“How’d you, uh… How’d you know my name?” Richie asks, unsure if he really wants the answer.

The boy, who doesn’t appear to have noticed anything wrong with Richie, steps forward, presenting a small notebook and a pen. “Will you sign this for me?”

The tension melts away immediately. “Yeah, sure!” Richie says, projecting as much enthusiasm as he can muster without sounding like a douche. He kneels down, taking the pen, and says, “What’s your name?”

“Dean,” the boy replies, smiling a gap-toothed smile. “I’m your biggest fan! I watch _all_ your specials, and I’ve seen a ton of episodes of _Saturday Night Live!_” The boy pauses and makes a face, and in a valiant attempt at mimicking one of Richie’s Voices, he says, “I’m tryin’ to think but my brain is just goin’,” he blows a raspberry.

“Rick Perry!” Richie says with a grin. “The Republican Presidential Debate sketch!”

Dean nods excitedly. “It’s one of my favourites.” He gets a bit sheepish as he says, “I’ve been trying to learn how to do impressions, like you. I’m not very good yet, but I practise a lot so maybe one day I’ll be as good as you are!”

Richie smiles, opens the notebook, and signs the first blank page, writing a little message above his signature. ‘_To Dean: thanks for being the coolest! PS: Your Rick Perry is spot on.’_

Richie hands the notebook back, and when Dean reads the message, he looks up at Richie again, a starstruck wonder in his eyes.

“Thank you so much!” Dean says. From behind him, a man calls his name, and he looks over his shoulder. “Oh, that’s my dad. I guess I have to go now.”

Richie nods. “All right. Oh, and uh…” He leans a little closer to Dean. “Keep this between us. Nobody’s really supposed to know I’m here.”

Dean looks even more awed than he did before. He nods emphatically, and then hesitates. "Can I show my parents and my little sister?"

Richie pretends to mull it over. He nods. "All right, but make sure to swear them to secrecy."

Dean nods again, says "Yes, sir!" and then he jogs over to his parents, showing them the message and the signature.

Richie stands back up, and he turns around to follow the others, only to find that they’re all still exactly where they were before, staring at him.

He feels his ears turning pink. “What’s with the staring? Let’s go.” He tucks his hands in his pockets. "Yeesh, you act like you've never seen someone meet their biggest fan."

Eddie scoffs.

Richie furrows his brow. “What?”

Eddie shakes his head and waves a hand dismissively. “Nothing.”

Richie figures Eddie is probably just trying to start an argument, and for once, he doesn’t take the bait. He simply walks out the door.

* * *

As soon as they get outside, Eddie starts pacing. Stan watches him walk back and forth a few times before he stops in front of Mike.

“You lied to us,” Eddie says. “That’s not okay!”

Richie moves his hair back from his forehead as he nods. “Yeah, first words out of your mouth should’ve been, like, ‘Hey man, wanna come to Derry and get _murdered?_’ ‘Cause then I would’ve said no.”

Ben shakes his head. “Guys…”

“Fuckin’ entrapment,” Richie mutters.

Stan shakes his head too, but in a way, he almost feels the same. Not to the same degree – he remembered It as soon as he remembered Mike, despite the fact that he was thirteen hundred miles away at the time he got the call, and Eddie, who lived four hundred and fifty miles away in New York, hadn’t. He just hadn’t realised that they really _were_ operating on so little time, and he hadn’t realised that as soon as he got back to Derry, things would start getting weird again.

“We have to stop it,” Mike says. “I have a plan—”

“I got a plan,” Richie interrupts. “Gettin’ the fuck outta Dodge before this ends worse than one of Bill’s books. Who’s with me?” He puts one of his hands up, the other tucked in his jacket pocket.

Eddie raises his hand.

Mike looks devastated. “We made a promise to each other!”

“Well, then, let’s un-make the promise!” Richie snaps back.

Ben, who looks torn, says, “Richie, other people are gonna die.”

“Other people die every day, man!” Richie shouts, gesticulating wildly with both hands. “We don’t owe this town _shit!_ Plus, I just remembered I grew up here, like, two hours ago,” He starts to turn away, though he continues to speak. “So, I’m fucking leaving. _Fuck_ this.”

Eddie puts a hand up, looking over his shoulder. “Sorry man, I-I’m with Richie.”

Mike advances on Eddie, hurt clear on his face. “Eds, please—”

“Listen, what, we stay, we die? That’s it?” Eddie briefly touches Mike’s shoulders as Richie presses the fob on his key, his rental unlocking with a low honk. Eddie grasps Mike’s upper arms and stares him in the face. “I’m goin’ back to the inn, I’m gonna pack up my shit, and I’m gonna drive to my home. I’m sorry man,” he pats Mike’s arms firmly. “Good luck!”

“Eddie, please! Please, please Eddie! Eddie, WAIT!”

Stan turns to Beverly, who’s sitting beside him, puffing away at a cigarette. “You okay?”

She has a far off look in her eyes for a moment, and when she looks over at him, she seems startled. She stands up.

“I’m gonna head back to the Town House, too.” She looks at Stan and Ben, who’s standing on Stan’s other side. “Are you coming?” Ben answers in the positive, but Stan simply remains silent, giving her a small, fragile smile.

“Should’ve told us, Mikey,” Bill says.

Mike looks between Bill and Stan. “Guys, please, _please_, I’m begging you. Please, just—just listen to me. Please.”

Bill turns around to face Mike, looking exhausted. “What are you gonna say?” He pauses, and scoffs lightly. “What could you possibly say that would make any kind of a difference? The others are already gone.”

Mike takes a few stuttering steps forward, holding the book he’d pulled out at dinner in front of him. “Well, lemme—lemme show you something,” he says, shooting a look back at Stan. Stan sighs, and stands up, coming to stand next to Bill. “One thing! And if you wanna leave, you-you can leave.” Mike licks his lips; a nervous tic Stan remembers from their childhood. “Just lemme show you this, first. Please.”

Bill looks at Stan, like he’s asking permission, and Stan shrugs.

Bill sighs, and Stan knows without him having to say a word that he’s already agreed.

* * *

Ben feels like arriving at the Town House, knowing he’s going to leave Derry for good, should lessen the dread pressing down on his chest. He feels like it should make him feel something close to content. Instead, he just feels guilty. 

As much as he’d tried to convince Richie and Eddie to stay, he feels a little like a hypocrite, because part of him says it doesn’t matter if people die, so long as it isn’t any of them. It’s a selfish, selfish thought, but Ben can’t help thinking it. 

Ben exits his car, and at the same time, Eddie – who is parked behind him – opens the door to his own. They both head up the Town House’s large front steps behind Bev and Richie, who throw open the front door as they pass through. 

“Let’s get our shit and get the _ fuck _ outta here,” Richie says. 

Eddie turns to Ben, who lags at the back of their single-file line. “Did you leave your stuff here?” 

“No, my stuff’s still in the car,” Ben replies as he enters the foyer. He follows Eddie and Richie to the next doorway before stopping and watching them go up the stairs. He hears movements to his left and turns to see Bev pouring herself a drink at the bar. He walks toward her, taking a seat on one of the bar stools as Bev downs her glass in one go. 

“Tell me,” he says, leaning forward slightly. 

Bev shakes her head slowly, looking back at him with wide eyes. “Tell you what?” She whispers. 

“Whatever it is you’re afraid to tell me right now.” 

Bev looks at him for another moment. Then, she puts the bottle she’s holding back on the shelf and walks away. 

“Bev,” Ben says. “Bev. _ Bev, _” Ben stands up, moving to block Bev’s path as she heads for the nearest exit. “I saw the way you looked at Stanley, back at–” Bev puts her arms up to prevent him from grabbing her, and he steps back, thinking of the bruises he caught a glimpse of during dinner. “Back at the Jade. What was that about?” 

Bev opens her mouth, and just as quickly closes it. “I–” 

Richie comes around the corner, bag over his shoulder. “Whatever you guys are talking about, let’s make it happen fast, all right? We gotta go.” Ben waves a dismissive hand, and from behind him, he hears Richie yell, “Eduardo, andale! Let’s GO!” 

“There’s something you’re not telling us,” Ben continues, electing to ignore Richie. 

Bev turns her head away, a pained look on her face. “I remembered... I saw Stanley die,” she says. 

Ben’s heart sinks. There’s silence for a moment, and then Richie speaks again. 

“Wait, _what _?” 

Bev shakes her head. “I can’t do this,” she whispers, brushing past Ben and Richie. 

“Did she just say she saw Stan_ die _ ? Is that what she just said?” Richie asks Ben. “That doesn’t make any fucking sense, Stan’s not dead, we _just_ saw him, he’s fine.” 

Ben shakes his head and follows Bev to the front desk, Richie close behind. 

“You can’t just walk away from this,” he calls as Bev rings the bell. “What do you mean, you saw Stan die?” 

Bev sends a nervous look at him over her shoulder when nobody comes out at the sound of the bell and goes behind the desk, retrieving her room key herself. 

“Bev,” Ben begins, “_Talk to me_. Just talk to me, like we used to!” As Bev goes to come out from behind the desk, he moves in front of her. “C’mon, what did you mean?” 

“I meant what I said,” Bev says, and Ben can hear the tears she’s holding back in her voice. “I saw him die. I’ve seen_ all of us _ die,” she finishes on a whisper 

The three of them lapse into silence – one of them tearful, the other two stunned. It’s broken by a low, rhythmic thumping coming from the stairs. 

“Okay, I’ve just gotta grab my toiletry bag and then we can go,” Eddie says gruffly, his voice giving away how much he’s straining to carry his two giant suitcases. When Eddie looks up and notices the state the other three Losers are in, he stops on the landing, looking them over uncertainly. “...What’d I miss?” 

* * *

Bill pulls into the lot, parking in between Mike and Stan, who are already standing outside of their cars. Bill climbs out himself, and Mike gestures for Bill and Stan to follow him. He heads up the steps of the building in front of them and bends to unlock the door, which he holds for Stan and Bill to enter past him. 

“Oh my God,” Stan says, coming to a stop in front of a glass display case. “Is this–?” 

“The_ library _ ?” Bill finishes, looking around in amazement. “_Wow _.” He lets out a surprised laugh, and then stops, his brow furrowing. “...Didn’t this place used to be bigger?” 

Mike, who’s stepped around both of them and is once more leading the way, gives him a sly look. Bill stops to examine a display as Stan comes up to stand next to him, and it takes them a moment to realise that Mike is continuing on without them, caught up as they are gawking at the tomahawk and grinding wheel in the display case. When Bill glances up and notices that Mike is gone, his eyes widen. 

“Y-Y-Y-Yo!” He calls, startling Stan. “M-M-Mike! Where did you go?” He exchanges a look with Stan before the two of them rush to try and catch up, hurrying down a dimly lit corridor. 

They turn a corner, narrowly avoiding knocking into a small table, on top of which is a pamphlet organiser, a stack of visitor’s guides that have a thin film of dust coating them, and a table lamp that gives off a warm orange glow. They find themselves at the foot of a winding set of mahogany stairs, which Mike has already begun to ascend with the ease of familiarity. Bill follows, listening to the soft creaks the old, polished wood makes, Stan close behind. 

At the top of the stairs is a large, loft-style apartment. Every surface is covered in as many books as it can bear to hold, and there are huge piles sitting in neat clusters in various places on the floor, some of them as high as Bill’s knees. 

“Mike, you live here?” Stan asks. Bill looks back at him, and finds a look of wonder on his face as he gazes about, his eyes jumping from the overflowing shelves to the various wall lights and lamps. 

“Yeah,” Mike says. “Make yourself at home.” 

Bill, who has come to stand in front of the large desk in the centre of what appears to be Mike’s sitting area, examines a photograph that’s on top of a stack of books. There are others – black and white, mostly, looking to be photocopies from books – but this one is the largest, and it’s the only one that looks new. 

“Either of you want some water?” Mike asks. 

“Sure,” Bill replies absently, still looking at the picture, and out the corner of his eye he sees Stan nod. 

Bill tears his eyes away from the photograph. He walks around the desk, giving it another cursory glance, before approaching Mike, who is pouring two glasses of water from a pitcher he retrieved from his fridge. Mike holds one of the glasses out to Bill and walks the other across the room to Stan, who takes it with a small smile. Bill takes a sip of the water and makes a face at the taste of it before sitting on a clear section of the desk, noticing that Stan does the same soon after. 

Mike comes to stand at the end of the desk, holding a hand out over the books, pictures, and notes. 

“See, memory’s the thing,” he begins. “It’s, uh... It’s the key.” He looks up, and he must notice the looks Bill and Stan are giving him, because when he continues, it’s with earnest. “I-It’s the key to everything!” 

“If It really does want us b-buh-b...” Bill sighs through his nose. “_Back _here, don’t you think the smartest thing we can do is get the hell outta Derry?” 

Stan nods, though he manages to look apologetic while he does so. “I’m... I’m with Bill on this one, Mike. Why should we be giving It what it wants? Why is that our Plan A?” 

“No, no,” Mike says, coming around the desk to stand in front of Bill and Stan, and then pacing back as he talks. “It... It _does_ want us back. Of course, it does! But It doesn’t know I know what I know.” 

“What d’you know?” Bill asks, feeling a little exasperated at this point with all of the beating around the bush. 

“H-How to kill the shit out of it!” Mike replies, and his face is alight with excitement and something like pride. 

Bill looks at him incredulously. He has a hunch that Stan is doing the same. 

“I’ve read every book,” Mike says, holding one up to emphasise his point. He reaches for a paper on his desk and waves it. “I’ve talked to every person in this godforsaken town – everybody that would talk to me, anyway, and that’s, that’s not a long list.” 

Bill bites his tongue against the urge to tell Mike to calm down. He wonders if this is what it was like for the others, hearing him insist that _Georgie was out there_, that he was lost in the Barrens or he had been swept into the sewers by a storm, despite the fact that it had been months and there had still been no sign of him. He wonders how they managed to stay so patient when he dragged them all over the place, forcing them to stay optimistic when none of his theories ever panned out. 

He’s learning pretty quickly from this situation he wouldn’t have been able to do the same. 

“But it wasn’t enough,” Mike continues breathlessly. “I had to know—I had to know how this all started. How...” 

Mike picks up something from the desk. Originally, Bill had thought it was some kind of decorative lampshade and he hadn’t given it much thought, but with the way Mike handles it, he gets the feeling it’s much more important than that. 

“How... _It_ started,” Mike finishes, lifting the not-lampshade closer to his face to examine it. 

Now that he’s paying attention to it, Bill can tell that the object, whatever it is, has different designs on each side, carved into the leather. 

Mike looks up from the object. 

“And it started,” he begins, walking slowly to stand in front of Stan and Bill once again, “here.” 

Mike holds up the not-lampshade. Bill blinks as he takes in the design on the panel that he’s being presented with, which he can tell now are even more detailed than he thought. 

“Whoa,” Bill says, holding out a hand as if to touch it, but something prevents him from doing so. “What are we lookin’ at, Mikey—?” 

“It’s an artefact,” Mike answers, before Bill even finishes asking the question. “Early eighteenth century. Shokopiwah.” 

“Shoko...” Bill murmurs before trailing off. 

“How did you get it?” Stan asks, slowly pulling a pair of glasses out of his shirt pocket and slipping them on. 

“I found it,” Mike says. His brow furrows. “N-no, no, they, they gave it to me.” He swallows. “...I stole it.” 

The words seem to take a moment to register in Bill’s mind. In fact, he realises belatedly, everything seems to be a bit off now. 

“Stole it? From... Native Americans?” He hears himself say, and his voice sounds slower than usual – not in the careful, deliberate way that he had painstakingly practiced during speech therapy, but in an unnatural way. 

Mike seems hesitant to respond, looking as though he realises he’s backed himself into a corner. “Um... It—It’s complicated—” 

“Yeah, it is,” Stan says, without lifting his gaze from the not-lampshade-artefact. Bill thinks his voice has the same sluggishness to it, but he can’t be sure. 

Mike takes the artefact-not-lampshade and holds it close to his chest. When he speaks, he attempts to make eye contact with Bill, but Bill is still staring at the artefact (which is not a lampshade). 

“They helped me on my journey.” 

“So beautiful,” Bill murmurs. He reaches out and places his hands on the artefact, watching as one of the carvings seems to move. 

“They showed me things,” Mike continues, though Bill is hardly listening now. “A vision.” 

A pounding headache rises in Bill’s head, beginning at his temples and making its way to the centre of his forehead. He walks away from Mike and the leather lampshade – _artefact_, he reminds himself, not a lampshade, an artefact which Mike stole – and presses his palms against his forehead, trying to rid himself of the dull ache that’s made its home there. 

“Feel kinda funky,” Bill murmurs. He isn’t sure if Mike can hear him; he can barely hear himself. His own voice sounds so far away. He brings his hands away from his head, opening and closing his hands repeatedly in an effort to figure out how to describe exactly how he feels. 

“’S hot,” Stan says before Bill has a chance to say anything more. His brow furrows and he swipes a hand against his forehead before squinting at it analytically. “Am I sweating?” 

“I need you two to see what they showed me,” Mike tells them, without turning to look back at either of them, almost like he doesn’t hear them. 

The whole room starts to move. 

“They live outside of Derry,” Mike begins, facing the wall, back-lit by lamp light that seems to glow with the intensity of the sun. “Beyond It’s reach. They moved there many years ago.” 

And, it sounds crazy, even to whatever strange state Bill’s brain is in, but Bill... he can_ see. _

He sees Mike, traveling past the city limits. He sees Mike meeting with the Shokopiwah, seeking an audience with their elders, and being interrupted when an old man with long, snowy hair told him he knew what Mike truly sought. 

“Their holy man, their holy of holies, took me in. Fed me their sacred material.” 

Bill sees the preparations being made. He sees a cup exchanging hands, and Mike drinking whatever is inside. 

“I started to... To react.” 

_ All living things must abide by the laws of the shape they inhabit. _

“While I sat there, looking out over the valley, I saw It arrive.” 

Bill reaches out a hand. He feels unsteady. It feels a little bit like when his college roommate had encouraged him to try weed for the first time (which he now realises was not, in fact, the first time, but he hadn’t known that then) and he’d absolutely hated it, but it was maybe just very shitty weed and he was in a bad head space to begin with because his long-term girlfriend had just broken up with him and one of his professors had given him a failing grade on a short story he was really proud of. 

Before him, in the present, in the loft apartment, Mike turns to face Bill and Stan once again. “I knew that one day, I would have to make you _all _see.” 

Stan reaches for Bill’s arm, trying to steady himself, and Bill barely even registers it. 

“Mike...” Mike lifts his head in acknowledgement, but Bill is staring off into the middle distance, having to focus very hard to formulate thoughts and then transfer those thoughts to spoken words. “Did you put something in our drinks?” 

Mike looks away, toward the two glasses sitting on the desk. He licks his lips nervously and points. “It’s, uh... It’s a root.” 

Bill feels his eyes go wide as the realisation sets in. “Y-Y-You dr—you dr—you dr—you drugged us? You _drugged _us?” Bill feels a squeeze on his forearm and glances over to see that Stan seems to be in a similar state of shock. 

“No, no, no! It’s a root, with—properties,” Mike says fervently. “It’s just a micro dose of what the Shokopiwah gave me.” 

He says the last part as though it’s any consolation, as though it makes up for the fact that he just fucking _drugged _Bill and Stan. 

Stan blinks rapidly, drawing in a ragged breath. “Why would you do that?” He asks, a slight slur to his voice, which is coloured with a note of hysteria. 

“To open your eyes,” Mike says, lifting the artefact from the desk again and turning it over in his hands. 

“I don’t feel real good,” Bill says, the same hysteria present in his tone. And it’s true, he really, really doesn’t; he’s sweating, his heart is racing, his body feels like it’s locked in place so that he can barely move. Everything has an odd haze over it, like he’s looking through a window on a muggy day, or gazing into a mirror that’s been clouded over by steam. 

“I need you,” Mike says calmly to the both of them, “to look.” He holds the artefact up so that Bill and Stan can both see it. Bill stumbles back, while Stan remains stock-still, frozen in place and staring at the artefact. “Can you see?” 

“I don’t—” Bill laughs nervously. “I don’t feel good, and I don’t really—” 

“Open your eyes.” 

The artefact begins to glow, and the moment Bill’s eyes fall upon it, he’s pulled in. 

“They showed me the past,” Mike says, but now his voice seems to be coming from all around – or maybe from inside Bill’s head? It’s impossible to tell. 

_ A light descends from the sky. It crashes into the ground with such force that the rock around it is made to jut up out of the crater where it landed_. 

Bill flinches. He and Stan both topple backwards. Bill feels as though he was thrown by the shock wave from the light’s impact, though he knows that such a thing is impossible. Mike closes in on Bill and Stan, holding the artefact out in front of him, and Bill is sucked back into the vision. 

_ The light – which Bill can see now is actually three lights – emerge from the crater, spinning in a circle as they rise_. 

“Showed me the way It appeared to them,” Mike continues. He turns the artefact, revealing the second panel: three orbs following behind a great bird, plummeting toward the ground with its wings outspread. 

The bird appears to rise off of the leather, coming to life in front of Bill’s eyes. It dives for Bill’s head, its eyes glowing orange. Bill cries out and puts his hands up to protect his face. 

_ The bird swoops into a clearing, filled with people. It sees into their minds – It sees their fears, and It changes its shape. It kills them_. 

Bill hears Stan scream. 

“They showed me their pain.” 

_ It changes again, taking a form closer to its own. Its mouth opens to reveal shark-like rows of teeth, and It lets out a blood-curdling roar_. 

“Showed me how to _stop it_!” 

Mike turns the artefact again amidst whimpers and shouts from Stan and Bill. Bill wants to beg him to make it stop, but he can’t make his voice work. He’s frozen with fear, with the horror of what he’s being subjected to. 

_ A group of people form a tight circle around the very artefact that Mike holds in his hands. They’re chanting in a language Bill doesn’t know, but at the same time he knows exactly what they’re saying. The three orbs of light descend slowly into the artefact, and one of the people comes forward to cover the top, trapping them inside_. 

An aborted scream rips itself from Bill’s throat as Mike lowers the artefact. 

Bill is dripping with sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead, and he’s lying almost prone on the floor, pressed back against one of the clusters of book piles. His chest heaves as he gasps for air. 

Mike lifts the artefact from where he’s placed it and Bill and Stan both make distressed sounds, struggling to catch their breath, but Mike drops it on the floor a foot to his right. 

“It’s over, it’s over,” he assures them. 

Bill turns his head this way and that, and he finds that the haze that had fallen over his vision is gone. He sees Stan, so close Bill would hardly have to reach to brush a hand against his side, in a similar state, his hair dishevelled and his glasses askew. 

“Did you see it?” Mike asks almost pleadingly. “The ritual?” 

“The Ritual of Chüd,” Stan says hoarsely. 

Mike nods, and he’s clearly relieved. He looks between Bill and Stan. 

“I knew you would—” He jabs his index finger at the air in between them. “I _knew _you would see it.” 

Bill reaches out and grabs the front of Mike’s shirt in his fist, using it to pull himself forward. 

“We saw the whole fucking thing.”

Mike smiles widely. “That’s how we kill it,” he whispers gleefully. 

Bill releases his grip Mike’s shirt, and slowly collapses back against the stacks of books he had been propped against, breathing hard. 

“How are we gonna do it?” Stan asks quietly. Bill and Mike turn their heads to look at him. His brow is furrowed deeply, a look directly from their childhood that looks strangely out of place on his adult face. “Everybody already said no.” 

Mike’s smile fades, but there’s a determination in his eyes that’s impossible to miss. “With you two,” he says seriously, reaching out and giving Stan’s hand a gentle squeeze, “they’ll listen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one ended on a bit of an odd note, but i really wanted to finish with that moment in the library. (also it sorta felt like if i kept going it would definitely get too long, lol)


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Losers find out what Beverly's been hiding; Mike leads the Losers out of town, and the search for the tokens begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is a little shorter than i would have liked. im gonna be honest, i didnt have much time or energy this week to write, so if this chapter sucks thats probably why

Eddie is pacing furiously back and forth, occasionally muttering to himself. Sometimes he stops, looking like he wants to say something, but then he shakes his head and goes back to pacing. It’s starting to make Beverly nervous. 

Ben is pouring himself drinks behind the bar, and Richie is standing next to the bar, but at the opposite end from Ben. Richie hasn’t spoken in about ten minutes, and that makes Beverly nervous, too; he’s just watching Eddie pace, a little crease between his eyebrows. The Richie Beverly remembers couldn’t stand tension, was always the first one to break a silence with a quip or an observation nobody else was willing to make. 

It’s hard to think about, but Beverly realises she doesn’t know Richie the way she used to. 

Eddie finally stops pacing. He comes to stand at Beverly’s side where she sits in an arm chair. 

“Okay, so, what do you mean you’ve ‘seen us all die?’” 

“Yeah, ‘cause I gotta be honest,” Richie says, without a trace of the humour Beverly had been half-expecting, “that’s a fucked-up thing to just drop on somebody.” 

Beverly wipes at her cheek, finding tears there. “Every night since Derry, I’ve been...” She sighs. “Having these nightmares.” 

Behind her, Eddie starts to pace again. She keeps going, only half noticing as he continually passes in and out of her periphery. “People in pain, people _dying_, people...” She trails off with a sniff. 

She tries to block the images out of her mind. Richie, Bill, Mike, Stan, Ben, Eddie, even herself – she's seen all of them, meeting their demise at their own hands in various sickening ways, no details barred. 

She can’t bring herself to say it, but she just_ knows_somehow, without a doubt, that Stan already came very close. 

Eddie, whose pacing has brought him to stand next to Ben, shakes his head in disbelief before throwing his hands up. 

“So you have nightmares! I have nightmares! People have—they have nightmares! But that doesn’t mean that your visions are true!” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than anyone else. 

Beverly sees, for a split second, Eddie, pouring pills into his hands, which are shaking so badly he nearly drops what he's holding. He takes that first handful, swallowing it with a glass of water so hastily that water drips down his chin, and then he does the same with another handful, and then another— 

Beverly shakes her head, trying to dislodge the vision from her mind. Shakily, she says, “I’ve watched every single one of us...” Her breath catches, and she’s unable to finish the sentence. 

She hears footsteps behind her, and she does not flinch. (_I’ve faced scarier things_.) 

“You’ve seen every single one of us what?” 

Beverly turns and looks at Bill. Mike and Stan are behind him, and even though she knows seeing Stan should make what she’s seen feel less real, it doesn’t. 

“We die,” Beverly says tearfully. “We all die by our own hands. That’s how we end.” 

There’s a shocked silence. Beverly can see the colour drain from Stan’s face, and when he notices her looking at him, he averts his eyes, wearing an almost guilty expression. She doesn’t want to think it, but she knows it proves her right. 

“Hey, how come the rest of us aren’t seeing that shit,” Richie asks suddenly, taking one of his hands out of his pocket to point at Beverly. “I mean, what—what makes her so different?” 

Bill walks around Beverly’s chair, mirroring Richie’s posture on the opposite side of the room, as Mike answers. 

“The Deadlights.” 

Richie’s brow furrows in obvious confusion. 

Bill stops walking. “The duh—Deadlights?” 

Beverly can see the exact moment Bill remembers, but she knows he doesn’t remember the same thing she does. She remembers being held in place by inhumanly cold hands. She remembers watching Its head open, unhinging like the jaw of a snake. She remembers gazing into its maw and seeing three hypnotic, glowing orbs. 

She remembers _floating_. 

She’s ripped away from the memory by Bill’s voice. 

“She was the only one of us that got c-caught in the Deadlights that day...” 

Mike comes to stand in the middle of the room. “We were_ all _touched by It. Changed.” Richie’s eyes go wide, a look Beverly can’t assign an emotion to. Beverly reaches down, her hand shaking, and unzips her purse, opening the carton of cigarettes sitting on top and pulling one out. She rummages for her Zippo as Mike continues, “Deep down, like an infection o-or a virus. A _virus_, do you understand? Slowly... growing...” 

Eddie makes a choked sound. He pushes past Mike, who tries to hold him in place, but to no avail. He pushes Mike away and goes to stand next to Stan. 

“That virus, it’s been growing for twenty-seven years,” Mike reiterates with force. “This whole time, metastasizing!” 

Beverly lights her cigarette, disregarding the fact that they’re indoors and the Town House surely has some kind of policy against smoking inside. She hasn’t seen an employee since they arrived, nor is there a smoke detector in sight. 

Mike takes a few steps closer to Richie, turning back to face the others. “What Beverly sees, it_ will _come to pass. Unless we stop It.” 

Eddie shakes his head. “How the hell are we supposed to do that?” 

Softly, looking up from where he’s been gazing intently at the floor, Stan says, “The Ritual of Chüd.” 

Richie’s eyebrows knit together, a baffled look on his face. 

“The Shokopiwah, the first ones who fought It, they have a saying: all living things must abide by the laws of the shape they inhabit—” 

Richie arches his brows at Mike. “Okay, a_ tribal__ ritual_?” He laughs incredulously, as though he can’t believe what he’s hearing, and in all honesty, Beverly has to agree. “Are you fucking kidding me, man?” Eddie seems to be on the same page; he mimics Richie’s expression, raising his eyebrows, as he resumes pacing, looking unimpressed. 

“All right, there’s gotta be another way,” Richie goes on. “This thing comes back, what, every twenty-seven years? Let’s just kick the can down the road and do it then.” 

Eddie stops pacing abruptly, turning to look at Richie. “We’ll be_ seventy years old_, asshole!” He says, bringing his hand up in a way that’s so familiar it makes Beverly’s heart ache. 

Richie’s eyes widen slightly. Beverly can see him doing the math in his head and arriving at the same conclusion Eddie had. He opens his mouth to say something, but Beverly cuts him off before he can even begin. 

“It doesn’t work that way.” Ben steps out from behind the bar and comes to stand by her side. It makes her heart feel pleasantly warm for a moment before she remembers where she is. 

“None of us make it another twenty years in. And the way it happens...” She finishes on a breathless whisper. She tries not to think about her friends – her_ family_, for that’s what they are, despite nearly thirty years of stolen time and stolen memories – pale and still and cold. 

Ben places a tentative hand on her shoulder, and she leans into the touch, tears dripping down her face. She wipes them away hastily. 

Ben takes a deep breath. “So, if we don’t beat it this cycle, then...” 

“We die,” Bill finishes. 

“Horribly,” Eddie adds, pacing again, with even more fervour than before. 

“Yeah, I don’t need the ‘horribly’ part,” Richie says, disgruntled. 

Eddie waves his hands. “I didn’t say it,” he points at himself, then at Beverly. “She said it, not me.” 

“All right, guys,” Bill says, interrupting their bickering. “Look, Stan and I, we’ve seen w-w-w-wuh-what he’s talking about, and i-it's all true. It’s the only way.” He looks at Mike. “If we want this ritual to work...” 

Mike nods. “We have to remember.” 

There’s a short, pregnant pause as they all look at each other. 

“...Remember_ what_?” Asks Richie. 

“It’s better if I show you,” Mike says simply. He starts for the door. “We don’t have much time. This cycle ends soon, and once it does...” 

Eddie swallows audibly. “We’re fucked.” 

Mike leads the others through the streets of Derry as the sun is beginning to rise. It’s early enough that nobody else is on the streets but the seven of them, and with the loose newspapers being blown across the ground and the crinkling of the leaves, one could almost believe they were walking through a ghost town. 

Beverly knows that they all know better. Even if everyone in Derry moved out overnight, there was still something living here, right beneath their feet. The thought makes a chill go up her spine, and she shivers, pulling the sleeves of her jacket down. 

Mike leads them straight out of Derry, but once they pass the edge of town, they don’t stop. They walk through the field by the train tracks, and past the stream, where Beverly remembers they’d built a dam together. They keep walking, and walking, right into— 

“The Barrens,” Beverly says, wonderingly. 

Ben is looking around, marvelling at his surroundings, which Beverly thinks are more familiar than they probably should be after nearly thirty years. 

“This is where we came,” Ben says. He laughs a bit to himself. “After the rock fight.” 

Suddenly, eyes wide with realisation, Richie says, “The clubhouse!” 

Beverly laughs brightly and points at Ben. “You built that for us!” 

Ben ducks his head, smiling bashfully. 

Richie nods, moving forward to stand next to Ben. “Yeah, yeah, the hatch has gotta be around here someplace—” 

Eddie suddenly joins in, indicating that he remembers, too. 

Beverly catches Ben looking at her, and, suddenly and inexplicably flustered, she looks away.

* * *

Ben stays close to Bev after what happened back at the Town House. He’d seen the look on her face as she told them all about her visions, and he didn’t want her to have to be alone with that. 

He ends up being quite grateful that he stuck close by when Bev, perhaps caught up in her excitement, trips over a root she hadn’t noticed protruding out of the ground. 

Without even thinking, Ben reaches out and grabs Bev (gently, but firmly) by the shoulder. 

“Hey, hey, careful,” he says as he helps her steady herself. “You okay?” 

Bev gazes up at him with wide eyes for a moment before blinking, seeming to register his question. She nods and laughs softly. 

Ben laughs too, though he is admittedly a little confused on why either of them is laughing in the first place. “What?” 

Bev purses her lips, as though she’s trying to hide her smile. “Nothing, it’s just...” She finally allows herself to smile, and she shakes her head fondly. “You haven’t changed.” She must be able to see the confusion he’s feeling, because she smiles wider and says, “’S a good thing!” 

Ben gives her an uncertain smile, and she laughs softly, giving his hand on her shoulder a little squeeze before removing herself from his hold and walking off. Ben watches her go for a moment, his heart doing flips in his chest, before he shakes his head at himself. 

_ Get a grip, Hanscom_, he thinks, as he walks out a little ahead of the other Losers. 

For Ben, along with the memory of the rock fight came the memory of the club house – just as it did for the others – but he likes to imagine that it came more vividly to him, somehow. That he could be the one to find it. 

He takes a few steps forward, calling back to the others, “Y’know what, I actually think the door was more like...” He stops suddenly, and stomps one of his feet against the ground where he’s standing. Impossibly, miraculously, a dull metallic_thunk _emanates from the ground with each stomp of his foot. “Around—” 

With a crash, the ground suddenly caves beneath him, and his heart leaps into his throat as he feels himself falling. He hits the ground, hard, the wind knocked out of him, watching dust and dirt swirl around above his head. 

“...Found it,” he says to himself, once he’s able to command his lungs to expand. Then, he draws in a deep breath, and yells, “I’m okay! Come down!”

* * *

There’s a moment where the others, after watching Ben fall through a hole in the ground, aren’t sure what to do. When he calls out to them, they all share a look, and Stan is sure they’re about to get caught in some sort of stalemate when Beverly – brave, radiant Beverly – takes the lead, walking right over to the clubhouse door and going down the ladder as though guided by muscle memory. 

Next is Richie (which Stan should have expected; Richie and Beverly would follow each other to the ends of the Earth), and then Bill and Mike, leaving Eddie and Stan to lag behind. Eddie grumbles about the wooden ladder giving him a splinter, even though Stan knows Eddie is fully aware that the ladder is sanded smooth. 

When they reach the bottom, lowering themselves to the ground without the jump that had been required when they were thirteen, they both pause for a moment. Stan can’t speak for Eddie or the others, but he can attest to the wave of nostalgia that hits him the moment his feet touch the floor. 

Stan watches Eddie examine a crate full of random objects, one of which is a broken paddle-ball, the string dangling sadly from the paddle. Stan smiles to himself, despite the residual irritation from the memory of having the rubber ball coming within centimetres of his face as Eddie bounced it against the paddle over and over, bringing it closer and closer to Stan’s face until it ended up hitting him, ultimately snapping, the ball bouncing away and landing behind a wooden pallet. The sound of Eddie loudly announcing that he was _not _sticking his hand down there echoes clearly in Stan’s ears. 

Eddie walks over to the wooden pallet the ball had fallen behind with barely a pause and crouches down. He reaches between the slats and brings out the ball, covered in grime. He smiles fondly at it, seeming almost unaware of the mud and grit sticking to his fingers as he blows dust away from the ball, which does little to actually clean it. 

Stan smiles at the sight, feeling just as fond as Eddie must be, before he looks away. 

Beverly is examining a filthy poster tacked to the wall, trying to make out the writing on it, which is so faded and dirty that reading whatever it says probably isn’t possible. Ben and Bill have arrived at a small, sturdy-looking old table with a haphazard pile of grimy comics on it, and they each pick up a couple and begin to leaf through them. Richie is nowhere to be seen, and for some reason, this raises a red flag in Stan’s mind, but he ignores it, turning a bit to watch Mike dig through a small locker on the far side of the room and pull out a wooden bat. 

Suddenly, from a corner, a voice says, “Hey, Losers.” 

Stan can practically feel the moment the others snap to attention, six sets of eyes now directed toward the shadowy corner the voice came from. Eddie, who is the closest, and Bev, who is the furthest from the other Losers, both edge back toward the group, the movement appearing almost subconscious. 

“Time to float!” The voice says gleefully, but something about it seems off. The part of Stan’s brain that had taken note of Richie’s absence insists that the voice doesn’t sound like It, not really. Stan doesn’t share this thought with the others. 

In reaction to the voice, Mike’s grip tightens on the bat, which is clearly meant for a child, and it’s almost comical to see a grown man raising it in such a serious manner. Ben, who was on the fringe of the group, backs away, and keeps moving away until he falls backwards into a folding chair. 

The six of them stare into the corner. 

After a solid fifteen seconds of tense silence, Richie surges forward out of the darkness, accompanied by manic laughter that is a horrifyingly close impression of the clown. His sudden appearance startles everyone, but Bill is so shocked that he jerks back and hits his head on a support beam. 

“Ah, fuck!” Bill says, lifting a hand to press his palm protectively over the tender spot. 

Eddie gives Richie – who is still laughing – an exasperated look. “Dude!” 

Richie calms down enough to speak, saying, “Remember he used to say that shit? He’d do that little dance,” Richie gives an awkward, stunted approximation of the dance in question, moving his arms and legs and humming an off-key, sped-up version of Deck the Halls. When he notices the other Losers’ lack of reaction, his grin falters a bit, and he pauses. “Am I the only one who remembers this shit?” 

Eddie glares at him. “Are you gonna be like this the entire time we’re home?” 

Richie stops smiling then, and he tucks his hands into his jacket pockets. “A’ight, just trynna add some levity to this shit, I’ll go fuck myself,” he says breezily, before he walks off, whistling to himself. 

Stan shakes his head and rolls his eyes, turning to walk away. Behind him, he hears Eddie complaining that something smells. 

Stan snorts to himself and is about to shout a witty retort when a metal shelf bolted to the wall catches his attention. There’s something on one of the shelves that immediately draws his gaze, and when that nagging feeling in the back of his mind crops up again, he reaches out and takes it, turning it over in his hands. 

The object, as it turns out, is a can of coffee. On the front of it is pasted a yellowed label, which says ‘FOR USE OF LOSERS ONLY –STAN’ in neat, precise red lettering. 

“Guys, I found something,” Stan calls, and he makes his way back over to the main part of the clubhouse, where everybody else is. He is unsurprised to find that he has everyone’s attention, and he presents the can, label out, so that they can see it. 

“Wh-whuh-what—” Bill clears his throat. “What is it?” 

“I’m not sure, but it’s got my handwriting on it,” Stan says. “’For use of Losers only.’” 

It’s clear the others don’t trust it, but that same gut instinct from before is telling Stan that he_ needs _to open it. Hesitating for only a moment, he places his hand on the edge of the lid. 

“Stan,” Eddie says warningly, eyeing the can as though at any second it might turn into a vicious beast and devour him. Stan tries to give him a reassuring smile, but he isn’t sure how the expression looks on his face, so he can’t really be sure how effective it is. 

He pulls up, and the can opens. The others hold their breath, but the world does not end, and they each relax to varying degrees. Stan reaches into the coffee can and pulls out a shower cap. 

This memory, unlike the others, hits Stan like a semi-truck. 

“_S__o __you don’t get spiders in your hair when you’re down here_.” 

_“__Do you think we’ll all still be friends? When we’re older? _” 

Stan can tell from the looks on the others’ faces that they remember, too. They have soft, sad, fond looks that sort of make him feel queasy, because they make him feel almost like the others have forgotten that Stan is there with them. 

“You always were old before your time,” Ben says wistfully, running his fingers absentmindedly over the surface of the mix tape in his hand. It appears to be an old favourite, what with the way the writing on the label has been smudged in some places and rubbed off entirely in others.

“And, I mean, he was also kinda... right, y’know?” Eddie says. “We ended up doing_ exactly _what we all said we wouldn’t do.” 

“We’re here now,” Stan says. He doesn’t realise that he’s saying it at first, and when he does, it catches him off guard. “We’re all here and that’s what matters.” 

There’s a silent moment where it seems like nobody knows what to say, and then Richie speaks.

* * *

“All right, Mike,” Richie says, and he tries to prepare himself for whatever weirdness he knows he’s about to receive in return. “What are we doin’ here?” 

Mike stands. “The ritual, to perform it, requires a sacrifice.” 

Richie’s eyebrows leap toward his hairline, and his palms begin to sweat. To cover up his nerves, he does what he does best. 

“Sacrifice? I nominate Eddie.” 

“Wait, what?” Eddie, who appears genuinely upset and a little afraid, looks between Richie and Mike. 

Richie shrugs, bringing his hands out of his pockets to gesture vaguely. “Because you’re little, you’ll fit on a barbecue,” he says simply. 

Eddie’s fear is immediately replaced with pure rage. His nose scrunches up and his eyes squint. “I’m five nine! That’s like, average height in most of the world!” 

Richie bites his lip to keep himself from grinning. His stomach is suddenly in knots, and he isn’t sure why, but he’s going to attribute it to hunger pains. 

“It’s not that kind of s-suh-sacrifice,” Bill says. He looks up at Mike, clearly inviting Mike to explain, as Eddie comes to sit next to him. 

Mike surveys them all, a deeply serious look on his face – not that he ever had any other kind of look on his face these days honestly, it was a little concerning to Richie how many levels of serious Mike could just pile up on his face – as he speaks. 

“The past is buried, but you’re gonna have to dig it up, piece by piece. And these pieces, these artefacts? That’s why we’re here. _T__hey _are what you’re sacrificing.” He pauses. “I brought you here because I figured it would be a good place to explain what we need to do.” 

“Looks like we already found one of our sacrifices,” Eddie says. Stan holds up a shower cap and then tosses it to him, and he puts it on. 

It looks ridiculous. Richie’s heart contracts painfully. 

Mike, in reaction to Eddie’s words, rubs the back of his neck, looking a bit sheepish. “Not... Not quite,” he says vaguely. He sighs. “C’mon, there’s—there’s some things I need to explain.” 

The Losers climb out of the clubhouse, which is a feat that takes much more effort than entering had. Richie realises after a moment that they’re leaving in the opposite order from how they came in, which he thinks is kind of funny, but he doesn’t voice this to the others. 

Once he’s out (with no small amount of assistance from Mike, because Richie’s forty-year-old bones are _not _fans of the act of climbing up and down teenager-sized ladders), Richie ambles over to stand next to a tree, to the left of Eddie and in front of where Bev is crouched close to the ground. Bill is crouched down as well, but he has his back to the others, and he’s staring pensively off into the middle distance like the heroine on the cover of a romance novel set in the nineteenth century. Stan is standing next to Mike, picking at the hem of his sweater. 

Richie watches Ben heaving himself out of the clubhouse, grunting as he takes Mike’s hand and uses it to pull himself up. (It makes Richie feel a little bit better about himself, knowing that even the fittest among them is having trouble with the tiny, steep ladder.) 

“Okay, Mike, what’s the deal?” 

Richie scratches a hand idly through his hair, thoughts of spiders weighing heavy on his mind. “Yeah, I gotta be honest, man, all due respect, this is fuckin’ _stupid_. Why do we need fuckin’... _tokens_? We already remember everything – saving Bev, defeating It. I mean, we’re caught up.” 

Mike holds up his hands placatingly, making a round gesture. “Not everything,” he says. “We fought. But what happened after that?” 

Nobody responds. Richie tries to think really, really hard, and finds that he can’t come up with an answer to that question. 

“_Before _the house on Neibolt? Think.” Again, nobody says a thing. There’s some uncomfortable shifting that Richie knows means that none of them want to admit the truth. 

“We...” Bill begins haltingly. “We c-c-c-can't remember, can we?” Richie can tell from the look on his face that he hates to admit it as much as anybody else does. 

Mike licks his lips. “See, there’s more to our story. What happened that summer. And those blank spaces, like pages torn out of a book,” of course the fucking librarian makes a book analogy, “that’s what you need to find.” 

Bill stands up out of his crouch, his expression stormier than ever. Bev lifts a hand to cup her cheek, gazing up at Mike wearily. 

“We need to split up,” Mike continues. He gives each of them a heavy, meaningful look that kind of makes Richie feel nauseated. “You each need to find your artefact –_ alone. _That’s important.” He looks at Stan. “It’s also why we can’t use the shower caps. Sorry, Stan.” 

Stan shrugs, going for nonchalant but not quite managing it. “I had a feeling it wouldn’t be that simple.” 

Eddie blinks, his eyes going comically wide and his mouth falling open. He directs his gaze to Richie, who shakes his head fervently. 

“Once you find your artefact, meet me at the library tonight,” Mike says, not seeming to notice the way Eddie is gaping. 

“I’m sorry, can we back up just a second?” Eddie says, doing a little rolling motion with his index fingers. “We have to_ split up_? Dude, that’s—that’s bogus. I mean, statistically speaking, if you look at survival scenarios, we’re gonna do much better as a group!” 

Richie nods. “Yeah, splitting up would be_ dumb_, man, okay, we gotta go together. We were together that summer, right?” 

Mike shakes his head minutely, and he opens his mouth to say something, but before he’s able to get a word out, Bill speaks. 

“No,” he says suddenly, probably a little louder than he meant to. He swallows as his eyes land on Richie, and averts his gaze almost guiltily. When he continues, it’s a bit quieter. “Not that h-h... _whole_ summer.” 

Richie’s stomach flips as a new memory surfaces. 

_ Bill, thirteen, angrier than Richie can ever remember him being, screams, “TAKE IT BACK!” He surges toward Richie and punches him in the face, so hard it knocks him to the ground. Bev shouts Bill’s name in alarm. _

_ Richie scrambles to his feet, feeling sharp and dangerous in a way he isn’t used to. He tries to lunge for Bill, but two pairs of arms __wind __around him and pull him back. _

_ “You’re just a bunch of LOSERS!” He shrieks, and if he were in his right mind, he might be embarrassed at the way his voice cracks, or worse, at the way he uses that word against them like he doesn’t know that he and they are one and the same. He struggles against the firm grips keeping him away from Bill, and to Mike and Stan, who are the ones keeping him in place, he roars, “FUCK OFF!” _

_ Bill is being held back by Ben, and he’s struggling too. There’s a moment, electric and terrifying, where Richie and Bill seem to almost break free, nearly meeting in the middle before they’re yanked back from each other. _

_ Bev, who is standing in the middle of it all, looks between them with the most distress Richie has ever seen on someone’s face, and then she closes her eyes and screams, “STOP!” _

_ They do. Of course, they do. Most of the rage seems to go out of Bill in an instant when he __realises __he’s upset Bev, and there’s not much Richie can do after that. He shoves Stan away from him, and Mike warily releases him, though Richie is sure if he made a move toward Bill, Mike is more than capable of restraining him again. _

_ “We were all _together _when we hurt It,” Beverly says sharply, as she looks at not just but Richie and Bill, but all of the Losers. “THAT’S why we’re still alive!” _

_ “Yeah?” Richie asks, that prickly feeling still sitting deep in his bones. “Well I plan to keep it that way.” And with that, he leaves, shouldering past Bill without a glance. _

“Fuck,” present-day Richie says, cupping a hand over his mouth to try and prevent himself from puking. 

“I n-never really apologised for... for punching you, did I?” Bill asks softly. He sounds a little sheepish, and a little sad. 

“Nah,” Richie admits. “But I never apologised for being an enormous asshole and making you want to punch me, so we’re kinda even on that front, I guess.” 

There’s a brief silence. Then, “I’m s-suh-sorry I punched you in the face, R-Rich.” 

Richie half-smiles. “I’m sorry I was an enormous asshole, Bill.” He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets. “And, hey, you somehow managed to completely miss my glasses when you hit me, and it’s been almost thirty years, so no hard feelings.” 

Bill opens his arms for a hug, and Richie obliges, the other Losers making various cooing sounds and just generally being super uncool about two guys forgiving each other for shit they did when they were thirteen. 

The hug itself is—well, Richie isn’t really used to getting real, proper hugs anymore unless they’re from, like, his mom, so the hug is nice, actually. Really nice. It’s at least the full twenty seconds or whatever it’s supposed to be, and firm, and Bill gives him an extra squeeze before he lets go that makes Richie feel warm and full inside. 

Once they’ve parted, they look to Mike. 

“So, we have to find literal pieces of the past to sacrifice in a ritual to kill an actual monster from our childhood,” Richie says. “Where do we start, Mike?” 

“Anywhere you feel a strong connection to,” Mike says. “I can’t tell you where to go specifically, but I can tell you that you shouldn’t expect it to be easy. It knows we’re here, and presumably, It knows why we're here. It may try to interfere if it realises what we’re doing.” 

Richie nods, because that makes sense. “So, basically, it’s gonna be super fucking dangerous and we’re all going to be alone with nothing but our childhood trauma to guide us. Awesome. I’m loving this more and more.” 

Mike ignores him. “Like I said earlier, once you’ve found your token, head to the library. And...” He gives them all a meaningful look. “Be careful.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im hoping to have the next chapter be at least a little longer than this one, but im kinda conflicted on how i wanna tackle it; would you guys prefer i rewrite the token-finding scenes in their entirety, or try and trim them down? either one is fine with me, but it would help to know what you all want to read


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunt for the tokens is on; two of the Losers get a surprise visit from an unwanted guest. Chaos ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know its been like. a million years since i updated this. im sorry about that, i swear it wasnt on purpose. anyway heres another 10,000 words of bullshit that i proofread myself
> 
> there is some possibly triggering content in this chapter, but its mostly canon-typical violence. if you'd like a more detailed description so you know if you should avoid it, check out the end note

Stan isn’t sure, at first, where he should go to find his token. He had lived in Derry until the day he left for college, so theoretically that should mean he has plenty of options – plenty of things to jump-start his memory. This turns out to be the opposite of the truth; Stan seems to be the only Loser whose memories have, for the most part, already come back. It appears that finding his token is less about remembering what happened and more about contributing to the sacrifice, which isn’t necessarily a problem, but admittedly it irks him a bit that he couldn’t have just used the damn shower caps.

Stan has half a mind to ask Mike if he made up what he said about having to find the tokens alone to make it more dramatic. It doesn’t seem like something Mike would do, but then again, Stan guesses he doesn’t really know what Mike would do anymore.

His first idea is that he could try his childhood home, where his parents still live. Digging through his old bedroom for some forgotten artefact from the past to jog his memory seems like the least dangerous possible option, even if the very thought of being in that house again makes him feel a little uneasy – not to mention the fact that he would have to come up with some kind of excuse to give his parents for why he’s suddenly in Derry. He doubts that ‘I came back to fulfil an almost three decade-old promise and kill an honest-to-God monster that haunted my childhood and once tried to eat my face off’ will go over very well with them.

In the end, Stan decides against going to his parents’ house. He can’t let himself get distracted, and if he turns up on their doorstep unannounced, his mother is going to make him stay and chat, and his father is going to ask him uncomfortable questions about when Stan and Patty are going to have children or whether Stan has been working through the Sabbath again. Instead, he goes to the place he dreads seeing the second most: his father’s synagogue.

As he climbs the front steps, Stan has the sudden realisation that the door might be locked. He isn’t really sure what he’ll do if that’s the case – he isn’t sure about any of this at all, in fact – but he puts the thought to the back of his mind and focuses on the fact that it  _ feels _ right. It feels like what he’s supposed to do. Stan has long since learned to trust his intuition.

Stan approaches the door with no small amount of trepidation. He reaches haltingly for the handle, holding his breath, and tugs lightly. To his great relief, there is no resistance, and he pulls the door open just enough to allow himself entry, turning to gently pull it shut once he passes over the threshold. He pauses for a moment, facing the door, and takes a deep breath before he turns back around.

The synagogue is, more or less, exactly as he remembered it. There’s different upholstery on the chairs, and the railing around the  bimah is stained a different colour to match the colour of the chairs (which he has the vague idea might be new, but he isn’t sure), but these changes are so minute that Stan simply takes note of them before moving on. He takes a few hesitant steps forward and sits down in a chair in the front row, closest to the  bimah .

Stan had had his bar mitzvah ceremony here. It had been just as stressful as he had expected; he managed not to stumble over his woefully unpractised Hebrew recitation, but when the time came for him to interpret it, to give his speech on what he had just recited to a whole crowd of people – mostly adults except for Richie, the only one of Stan’s friends that managed to show up – who couldn’t care less what he thought about growing up, the speech he had had planned suddenly seemed ridiculous and worthless.

So, instead, he said what was on his mind. He told the truth, and for once, he didn’t let himself stop to think about how he was embarrassing himself or letting his father down or how horrible the consequences were going to be. He just said whatever came to mind – which turned out to be a bit irresponsible, because what came to mind was,  _ I am a loser and I always fucking will be _ . Richie had stood up and clapped, grinning widely until his mother yanked him back into his seat. Stan just turned on his heel and marched himself off to his father’s study without another word.

Stan, in the present day, stands, walking purposefully toward the back of the room and opening a heavy door.  _ The study _ .

This room is exactly as he remembers it – all the holy books and religious texts organised in the exact same way, the same lamps, and the same  _ damn painting _ . Stan resists the urge to cover his eyes, but he doesn’t resist the urge to keep his gaze from falling on the woman’s face;  instead,  he traces the  dark wood bookshelves with his eyes, and when he notices a familiar shape sitting unassumingly on one of them, his brows knit together. He takes a couple of steps toward the shelf, almost unwilling to believe what he’s seeing, but when he’s holding it in his hands, he can’t deny it anymore.

It’s the  kippah his father gave him for his bar mitzvah — a replacement for the one Patrick  Hockstetter had thrown out in front of a bus on the last day of school.

All at once, a vivid memory rings in Stan’s ears.

“ _ Stanley Uris, what in the world was that?” _

_ Stan turns, and is unsurprised to see his father standing in the doorway, his face red with embarrassment and barely-restrained anger. _

_ “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done? Our entire community shows up to your ceremony, and you—you embarrass yourself in front of every single one of them? You embarrass  _ _ ME _ _ ? What possessed you to do what you just did?” _

_ Stan thinks about what he’s going to say. He remembers the people sitting in the audience, watching him  _ _ almost  _ _ apathetically. It makes his face feel warm, thinking about all those eyes having witnessed this, possibly his biggest fuck-up ever. _

_ “Nothing,” Stan says, and he’s both shocked and unsurprised to find that he’s not afraid at all. He’s faced worse than his father and come out the other side still breathing; this, at least, won’t cause a total upheaval of Stan’s worldview. “I said what I did because it’s the truth, and—and I needed to say it. It’s true, even if nobody wanted to hear it.” _

_ His father doesn’t seem to care, doesn’t even seem to hear what he’s saying. The rage is building in his eyes, and Stan has the paradoxical desire to both roll over and to spurn him even further. He’s never gotten this kind of reaction out of his father before. _

_ “It’s those kids you’ve been hanging around with, isn’t it,” his father asks, but the way he says it makes it more of a statement than a question, like he’s already decided that that’s the answer. “Those... those  _ hoodlums _ , and Wentworth Tozier’s boy.” _

_ “What? No!” _

_ “I don’t want to catch you spending any more time with them. ESPECIALLY not the Tozier boy. I should’ve known better than to let you go anywhere near that one,” his father tells him. “Those children are all bad influences, every single one of them, but the Tozier boy is the rottenest of the bunch. If I ever catch you with that boy again, you’ll be in a world of trouble, Stanley.” _

_ Stan knows how he probably looks: his mouth agape, his eyes wide, shock open on his face. He’s never heard his father say a word against any of his friends before, not even Richie, as troublesome as Richie was known to be. (Bitterly, he wonders if that’s because he’s never actively defied his father before.) _

_ “Dad, that’s not fair!” Stan cries. “My friends didn’t do anything wrong!” _

_ “Life’s not fair, Stanley,” his father retorts. “And don’t you try to pull that with me – I saw that Tozier boy applauding your little performance earlier. I know he had something to do with it. He probably put you up to it.” _

_ Stan throws his arms up, heat rising in his face. “No, he didn’t!” His father holds up a hand to silence him, and Stan cries out in frustration. “This is bullshit! They didn’t make me do this, dad, I CHOSE to do it!” _

_ “ENOUGH!” His father roars _ _ , and Stan falls silent immediately, almost recoiling at his father’s tone. _ _ He scowls at Stan before taking a deep breath. “I have given you every opportunity to apologise for your childish behaviour, but since you’re unwilling to do that,  _ _ you are _ _ grounded, Stanley. You will not be hanging out with those kids anymore, and for the foreseeable future you will be spending your summer in your room.” _

_ Stan feels his eyes well up with angry tears. He undoes the clips holding his  _ _ kippah _ _ in place and yanks it off, throwing it on the ground and storming out of the study, rubbing the sleeve of his jacket fiercely over his face. _

Stan blinks as the memory fades, almost startled to find that he’s standing in the room alone, holding that same  kippah in his hands.

_ Huh. Maybe finding a token wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be, _ he thinks, smiling briefly and stuffing the  kippah into his back pocket. Feeling accomplished, Stan turns and takes a couple of steps toward the door.

Only to find it closed.

He stops mid-stride, a very,  _ very _ bad feeling building suddenly in his chest, because he knows for a fact that he left that door open.

“ Staaaaaaaanleey ,” a voice calls from behind him. It’s a woman’s voice – no, that’s not true; it’s an  _ approximation _ of a woman’s voice. It’s too low and distorted to have come from a real human being, layered with multiple pitches. He turns around slowly , trying to identify where the voice came from, only to find the room empty. Then, horrifyingly, soft flute music begins to play from the direction of the door, which makes Stan’s chest feel like it’s going to explode with how suddenly his heartrate has risen.

The flute music gets slightly closer, and then stops. There’s a vaguely familiar sound of a heavy metal object clattering against the floor. 

Stan whimpers, shutting his eyes tight and praying that what he thinks is happening isn’t actually happening.

The same voice as the one from before laughs quietly. “ Staaanleeeyyyy ...”

Stan swallows hard and takes a deep breath, opening his eyes. Clutching his hands into tight fists, he slowly turns around again.

It’s her. Of  _ course, _ it’s her. She looks exactly as Stan remembers: long, dark hair framing a long, disfigured face, empty white eyes, sharp teeth exposed in a grin that slashes across her face like a knife wound.

She cocks her head at him, her grin growing impossibly wider. “Do you remember me, Stanley?” Her mangled hands are clasped in front of her. “I remember  _ you _ .”

“Judith,” Stan whispers, his voice trembling. The scars around his face throb, almost as though they aren’t twenty-seven years healed.

Judith’s mouth opens, displaying her horrifying teeth even more, and she lunges toward him.

Stan lurches away, trying to make it around his father’s desk, but before he can get very far, he feels long fingers wrap around his ankle, yanking back and causing Stan to lose his balance. He hits the floor hard, the air forced out of his lungs, and rushes to turn onto his back despite knowing that it does little good. He’s dragged across the floor, a scream  tearing itself from his throat, until  Judith is hovering over him, her eyes gleaming in the low light.

“Got you, Stanley,” she says before cackling. She begins to unhinge her jaw, row after  row of teeth appearing from the depths of her crooked mouth.

Stan feels out blindly with his free hand for anything that could help him escape from her grasp,  unable to look away from her,  only for his fingers to make contact with cold metal. Before he has a chance to think about it, he grabs the flute and swings it up as hard as he can into her head.

Amazingly,  _ impossibly _ , it makes contact, and  Judith is thrown across the room by the blow. Stan doesn’t pause to pat himself on the back, though; instead, he gets to his feet as quickly as he can and makes a mad dash for the door, which now stands wide open. Once he’s out of the study, Stan bolts for the front door, and he doesn’t stop running until he’s across the street from the synagogue, taking comfort in the presence of other people, oblivious as they are to his plight.

Despite knowing he shouldn’t, Stan looks back across the street at the synagogue. Standing on the front steps, grinning broadly and giving Stan a jovial wave, is Pennywise. Stan’s heart continues to race until, when a car passes between Stan and the synagogue, the clown vanishes.

Stan reaches a shaky hand into his pocket and pulls out the  kippah , which he stares at for several seconds to ensure that it won’t simply disappear before his eyes, leaving that whole encounter worth nothing. The longer he looks at it, the steadier he feels as a whole, a new sense of determination warming him from the inside out.

He’s going to kill that fucking clown. Whatever it takes.

* * *

Ben sits on his (still fully-made) bed in the Town House, staring down at his hands as he traces the pattern on the duvet mindlessly , not really seeing any of it at all. He’s been doing this for quite some time now, because when Ben comes across a  real  conundrum, he finds that  what  he really needs  is  to sit and puzzle it out for a bit.

The conundrum is,  in this case , finding his token. He isn’t really sure  how  to  go about  doing it, or even where to begin , because he doesn’t have a lot of physical objects connecting him to Derry like  some of  the others do; when he and his mom had moved to Nebraska to live with his Aunt Jean , a lot of Ben’s childhood belongings got donated or sold , because he either didn’t want/need  them anymore, or  they took up too much space, or  it was too painful to think of holding on to  them when he knew he was going to forget why  they meant so much to him. A couple of things got left in the old clubhouse, he thinks, but not really anything that he had any special attachment to, and everything in the clubhouse came to be considered Property of the Losers’ Club long before Ben left Derry for what he thought would be the last time.

He tries to think of something that means a lot to him, something that would bring back memories, and all that really comes to mind are the other Losers , and even though it’s a nice sentiment, for obvious reasons it doesn’t really help him right now; he needs a tangible object, something that might jumpstart his memory. He sighs and shakes his head as the image of Beverly immediately flashes before his eyes, but then he pauses.

_ Beverly _ .

He digs his hand into his pocket and brings out his wallet, opening one of the card slots and revealing the yearbook page from 1989. He carefully slides the yellowed paper out and unfolds it, looking down at the childlike scrawl of the name, the sloppy hearts doodled underneath it.

_ Beverly Marsh _ .

For the first time since he left Derry, Ben remembers the day he met Beverly Marsh, as clearly as if it were only yesterday and not just shy of three decades ago. He remembers how instantly he had been enamoured with her, how embarrassingly heart-eyed he’d been throughout his entire time knowing her. He remembers the poem that he wrote for her, on a postcard he bought in the library, and despite how embarrassed it makes him feel to reminisce on this childhood crush he apparently still isn’t over, he can’t help but smile to himself.

After the one memory returns, others come flooding back: tumbling off the Kissing Bridge and right into the laps of Richie, Bill, Stan, and Eddie. Going to the Quarry for the first time. Showing the others his strange, borderline obsessive history project – and learning from Mike that his father and his grandfather had both been pretty well-versed in Derry’s dark past.

He thinks about the twenty-odd lonely years he had kept the yearbook page in his wallet. He knows that at one point, the thought of letting go of it would have made him sick to his stomach, whether he remembered exactly where he got it and why it meant so much to him or not; what he knew even without remembering the exact details was that the single, childish signature served as a reminder that at least one person had taken the time to see him, to notice plain old Ben  Hanscom , and do something that made him feel a little less alone. Getting rid of it would be like getting rid of a vital part of himself.

Now, though, he  supposes that the thought of letting go of it  doesn't  bother him so much anymore; he doesn't feel that  pervasive  loneliness that has haunted him for as long as he  could remember, surrounded by people but never  really  able to get close to them , never able to connect. What’s more is, he has  _ memories  _ now, real, whole memories, of friends who loved him so deeply they viewed him more like family, and whom he loved just as deeply in return. 

He has the Losers back – and, more specifically, he has  _ Beverly _ back – so he doesn't need anything to remind him of them anymore.

Ben smiles faintly, running his fingers over the  ink one more time before folding the page back up. Instead of putting it back in his wallet, though, this time he slips it into  his jacket pocket , right over his heart .

* * *

Once Bill has passed Up-Mile Hill, he swings a leg over the old bicycle. He’s not surprised to find that the frame, once much too large for him and difficult to control, is now just about the perfect size, but for some reason the knowledge still rocks him anyway; it’s difficult to imagine a version of Silver that isn’t ungainly and  hard to steer.

Shaking these thoughts away, Bill plants one foot on the ground, holding Silver’s heavy frame up, and pushes off.

He makes it about two feet before he loses balance.

Bill huffs out an annoyed sigh, adjusting his grip on the handlebars. After a moment of careful reflection, he finds that his memory as far as bicycles go begins and ends with buying Silver. Which means Bill has forgotten how to ride a bike.

_ It’ll come back _ , assures a voice in Bill’s mind that he mistakes for his own.  _ Like everything else, it’ll come back. _

Bill gets back on the bike and tries again. Silver lists and drifts from side to side, and Bill accidentally tilts the handlebars down. He stops again, fixes the handlebars, and despite himself, he grins broadly.

“Yeah, I missed you, too,” he tells the bike, laughing.

Mounting the bike once again, Bill finds himself having a much easier time, his body carrying out each step almost independent of his brain: he puts one foot on the pedals, pushes off, lifts his grounding foot to the other pedal, and begins to pump his legs, focusing straight ahead. To his delight, he maintains his balance. As he begins to gain speed, he stands up off the seat, continuing to pedal and laughing gleefully.

“YEAH!” Bill shouts, whooping loudly.

As Bill goes, a memory from long ago returns to him; a memory of himself, riding this very bike down this very street. He recalls the phrase he used to utter  when he finally got his old bike going, once the only thing he could say without stuttering.

“Hi- yo , Silver, AWAY!”

Silver gains speed until Bill doesn’t even need to pedal, coasting alon g the street with his heart pounding away in his chest. It’s only when he sees a familiar house coming into view that he begins to slow; it’s his own childhood home, the neat little two-story with the same slate grey paint on the outside. He remembers watching from the upstairs bedroom as his little brother descended those front steps, stopping to wave up at him cheerfully. His voice echoes in Bill’s ears, clear as day.  _ Bye, Billy! _

Coming down the driveway, in the present, is the little boy from the Chinese restaurant – Dean – with a skateboard tucked under one arm.

Bill drags his eyes away and begins pedalling again as he passes the house, his chest feeling tight. Soon enough, he reaches the storm drain near the intersection of  Witcham and Jackson, and before he knows what he’s doing, he’s pushing the pedals backward, coming to a swift halt. He dismounts Silver and drops the bike to the ground, stepping hesitantly toward the drain.

It’s pitch black inside, despite the bright sunlight beaming down from above. Bill gazes into it anyway, eyebrows drawn low, jaw clenching. When it becomes clear that nothing is going to happen, he looks away and makes his way back over to his abandoned bike. He’s got the handlebars in hand when a voice drifts over to him from the drain.

“ _ Billy, don’t leave _ .”

Bill freezes, letting Silver’s handlebars slip out of his grasp and drop back to the pavement. “Hello?” He approaches the drain warily, beginning to crouch as he tries again to see inside. Despite his efforts, all he can see is darkness.

“ _ Billy...”  _ Bill, now essentially on his hands and knees, begins to half-crawl toward the storm drain. He knows that voice, would recognise it anywhere. “ _ I’m still here. Help me _ .”

Bill’s throat constricts. He’s right in front of the mouth of the drain, now. His voice is rough with tears as he calls, “Georgie!”

A figure – the figure of a child, clad in a yellow rain slicker – appears suddenly from the shadows. It reaches out both hands; clasped gingerly in one of them is a yellowed paper boat. Everything above its neck is obscured by the darkness.

Bill’s lip trembles. “ Juh ...” He smiles, almost unable to believe what he’s seeing. “ _ Georgie _ ?” He moves to reach out a hand, and then hesitates. Something, some niggling in the back of his mind, tells him that this is strange – that he shouldn’t accept it.

As though it can sense his doubt, the figure cries out, “Help me, Billy.” It’s all the affirmation Bill needs; this is Georgie. It has to be.

Bill slides forward on his stomach and reaches down into the drain, his arm in it up to the elbow. “Take my hand!” He says desperately, and then moves even further into the drain. “Take my hand!”

Georgie holds out the paper boat with one hand and reaches up with the other, and Bill stretches, trying to grab onto the grasping hand. It’s only just out of reach.

Bill waves back toward himself encouragingly. “I’ve got you, buddy, c’mon!”

Georgie, his voice wrought with fear, calls, “He’s coming!”

Bill’s skin breaks out in gooseflesh and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. He grunts as he continues to reach, stretching hard, growing more desperate at the sound of those words. “T-T- Tuh - Tuh - _ Take my hand _ !”

“Help me, Billy, he’s  _ coming _ !” Georgie cries, sounding as though he’s on the verge of tears.

“Georgie, c’mon! Take my hand!”

“BILLY!” Georgie screams.

“C’mon, TAKE MY HAND!” Bill shouts, fearful, tears beginning to well up in his eyes.

Georgie reaches, stretches, his small fingers almost close enough now to close around Bill’s hand. Bill heaves a sob of relief.

An arm surges out of the darkness and grabs hold of Bill, frightening him enough that he jerks his head back against the concrete lip of the storm drain and bright bursts of colour explode across his vision. The arm begins trying to drag Bill into the dark; children’s laughter echoes in his ears. More hands –  _ children's _ hands, piling on top of each other in gruesome, rotting layers – appear, climbing up Bill’s arm, his shoulder. 

The hand attached to the original arm reaches for Bill’s face as the voices of the children are slowly drowned out by a single, eerie, familiar cackle.

Bill rolls away as far as he can and braces himself against the curb with his free hand. Grunting and straining, he manages to yank his other arm free; he scrambles back from the sewer as quickly as he can, the small, decaying hands reaching out as if to follow him, and when he looks down to check himself for injuries, he finds himself clutching a paper boat. The sight of it rips a sob from deep within him, and he presses his hands to his ears in an attempt to drown out the laughter that continues to drift out to him from the drain.

“What’re you doing?”

Bill nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of the voice; for a moment, he’s certain that It decided to kill him once and for all, but when he looks up, he finds himself looking at Dean – the kid from the Chinese restaurant.

Bill swallows. Without really knowing what he’s going to say, he opens his mouth: “I  dr -dropped something.” He holds the paper boat up. “It’s r- ruh -really important to m—to me.”

Dean looks puzzled. “What’s so special about it?”

Bill is silent for a moment. He looks down at the boat, turning it over in his hands, running his fingers over the careful folds. “It  wuh -was my b-brother's,” he says finally.

“Oh. Okay.” Dean sniffs, rubbing at his nose. Then, he narrows his eyes calculatingly. “Aren’t you one of the guys who was with Richie  Tozier at Jade of the Orient?”

“Yeah, I am.”

Dean cocks his head. “What’re you doing here?”

“I a-actually, uh,” Bill clears his throat, trying to force his still-racing heart to slow. “I actually used to live around here. I-I-In the big dark grey house on  Wuh -W- Witcham .”

Dean brightens. “No way! That’s where  _ I _ live!”

Bill had already known this, having seen Dean coming down the driveway of the house earlier, but he figures that it comes off less creepy if he doesn’t share that information; instead, he says, “W-Wow, how about that?”

They lapse into a brief silence. Dean begins to fidget, antsy in that signature childish way, and Bill (catching a glimpse of the storm drain out the corner of his eye) decide s to leave the kid with some parting words of advice.

“...Listen, uh, D-Dean, right?” Dean nods. “Listen, Dean, this is g- gonna sound a little  wuh -weird, but I need you to promise me something, okay?” Dean nods again, looking like he’s trying his best to seem Serious and Trustworthy. “I need you to p-p-promise me that if you ever hear voices from the drain,  _ any _ drain, that you don’t talk to them. You g- guh -get as far away as possible. And d-don't play near this,” Bill says, pointing at the storm drain. “Avoid it completely, if you can. It’s not s-safe.”

“I’ll be careful, promise,” Dean says, as solemnly as a child can. He hesitates. “But...”

“But w-what?”

“Well... I already hear voices from the drain. Only in the tub, though.”

Bill feels the blood in his veins turn to ice. “W-What  ki-kinda voices?”

“Kids,” Dean says softly, like he knows he’s talking about something he shouldn’t be, or that he’s been told not to. After a moment, he adds, “And other times, like a...”

Heart pounding, Bill asks, “Like a clown?”

Dean seems surprised that Bill could have known that, but he nods.

Bill’s first reaction – the one he ignores, because he knows it would make him seem crazy – is to grab Dean by the collar, tell him to get the hell out of Derry, and make damn sure he  knows  how much danger he  could be in if he stay s . Instead of giving in to the panic gripping his heart like a vice, he takes a deep breath.

“Dean, remember what I said earlier about this boat belonging to my brother?”

Dean nods, his brows furrowed.

Bill exhales shakily. “M-My b- buh -b-brother, he... He died. He died here, in Derry, when he was about your age.”

Dean has a sad, softly horrified look on his face as he asks, “What happened to him?”

“He went out to play on a rainy day,” Bill begins quietly. “It had been storming for a week, and the p-power was out. I made this boat for him, and he wanted to take it out and play with it. I couldn’t go out because I had the flu, so he... He went alone. And right there,” Bill points at the drain again. “Right there, a m- muh -monster came out of the drain and it—it got my little brother.”

Dean looks afraid, and Bill feels bad for putting that fear on his face, but something keeps telling him that this is what he needs to do.

“A... a monster?”

Bill nods. He licks his lips, and when he continues, he speaks evenly, looking Dean in the eye to make sure Dean understands his meaning. “Derry wasn’t safe back then, and it isn’t safe right now, either. If you can find any reason, any excuse,  _ anything at all _ , to get your parents to get you out of Derry, you need to do it. You have a little sister, don’t you?”

Dean nods. “Her name’s Clara. She’s three and a half.”

“Convince your parents to take you and Clara somewhere, Dean. It doesn’t matter where, as long as it isn’t Derry. Don’t tell them the things I’ve told you, because they won’t believe you; just figure something out and go someplace safe. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Dean says gravely. “I’m  gonna go home now. I guess I’ll figure out what to say when I get back.”

Bill nods. “Good luck, Dean.”

Bill watches Dean on his skateboard until he’s gone from Bill’s sight. Then, Bill stands, running his thumb over the side of the SS Georgie.

He doesn’t realise until much later how long he went without stuttering.

* * *

Beverly climbs up the steps to the Town House, the postcard clenched tightly in her hand like a talisman.

Mrs Kersh had turned into the Witch from  _ Hansel & Grettel,  _ the German fairy tale Beverly’s mother used to read to her before bed. Up until today, Beverly hadn’t even remembered it, but now, not only does she remember the story, she remembers how terrified she had been of it, of the disfigured old witch who ate children. There had been a picture of the Witch, Beverly thinks, that had given her nightmares when she was little.

_ And then that man _ ...

The man from the picture. The real Pennywise.

He had taunted Beverly, using the words her father said to her all those years ago. He’d told her that she hadn’t changed anything, she hadn’t saved any of her friends. The words had grated on her more than they’d made her afraid, but they had been familiar enough to remind her who –  _ what _ – she was looking at.

As It carved deep lines into Its own face, Beverly fled. Its mocking laughter followed her as she raced out into the street, the only thing on her mind putting distance between her and the monster, between her and the fear. Running away, just as she always promised  herself she wouldn’t.

Now, in the present, Beverly tries to push the entire event from her mind. She has her token; there’s no sense in tormenting herself on top of what she’s just been through.

She pushes the doors open, passing through the foyer and stopping in the main room with the large, ornate staircase. She walks over to it, looking around to find that there is nobody else in the room with her, and takes a seat near the bottom, unfolding the postcard and gazing at it.

_ Your hair is winter fire,  _

_ January embers. _

_ My heart burns there too. _

It makes her smile as she runs her fingers over the worn corners, stained with the blood that had coated her bathroom twenty-seven years ago. She thinks that it’s a wonder her father never destroyed it; she’d been paralysed with fear the moment she realised she’d just left it sitting on the edge of the bath tub, right there for him to see, but in some strange twist of luck he hadn’t taken any notice of it, not until much later.

Beverly hears distant footsteps and quickly folds up the postcard again. 

She’s not sure why, but for some reason, it feels too personal to let anyone else see just yet.

Ben stops at the top of the stairs, calling a tentative, “Hello?”

She smiles at him. “Hey.”

Ben’s eyes fall on her and he descends the stairs slowly, coming to stand next to her. “...Hey,” he replies quietly. He gives her a brief, almost searching look, and then says, “So, what’d you see out there?”

As Beverly considers her answer, Ben sits down beside her.

“Something I wish I hadn’t,” Beverly says finally.

There’s a long, heavy pause.

“So, what, we just—” Ben flaps a hand vaguely. “We... We kill It, and then we just... forget everything again?”

Beverly leans back against the newel post, looking at Ben with a critical eye. He has an almost desperate expression on his face, like he’s trying to understand something that’s beyond him, but more than anything he just looks sad. He seems to think that forgetting would be a bad thing; Beverly finds that all she really wants is to forget the horrors she’s been through since coming back to Derry. She thinks that not being able to remember would be more of a blessing than a curse.

“I hope so,” she tells Ben, and finds that she means it. “Don’t you?”

Ben looks away from her for a moment, pursing his lips.

“I-I don’t know, I...” He ducks his head. When he looks back at her, both his voice and his face are sheepish. “I guess I  wanna hold onto the good stuff,  y’know ?”

Beverly finds herself nodding without really realising it, but she can almost picture her own confused expression. Ben must notice the look on her face over the nodding, because that desperation returns, full force.

“C’mon, there must be  _ something _ from the past you don’t want to forget again.”

After a very brief pause, Beverly says, “I remember being scared shitless,” her brows arched high, her eyes wide.

Ben shakes his head minutely, and says, “Cold.” It makes Beverly smile, just a little. She remembers something, then, and her smile grows.

“I remember you guys in your  tighty-whities ,” she says slyly, giving Ben a smirk. Colour blooms high on his cheeks and he gives his head a fervent little shake, which only makes her all the smugger.

“O-Okay, please... forget  _ that  _ moment,” Ben says almost pleadingly.

Beverly laughs softly and shakes her head. Her eyes fall on the postcard in her hand, and her smile slips, just a little.

“...I remember this,” she murmurs, before she’s even aware that she’s made the decision to acknowledge it. She unfolds the postcard gently, smoothing her fingers along the creases. “I can almost remember... the boy who wrote it for me.”

She looks up at Ben, who has an unreadable expression on his face, but Beverly thinks he almost seems nervous. She looks back at the postcard quickly, her brows furrowing in concentration.

“I thought it was Bill, once,” she confesses. Ben doesn’t respond, so she continues. “But I think... That day, in my bathroom, I mentioned it to him and he had no idea what I was talking about. And I wondered, for a while, who else it could possibly have been. And I think... I think I realised part of me knew all along,” she finishes on little more than an awed whisper.

Beverly looks at Ben, who Beverly can see is definitely nervous, now, but the nervousness is tempered by something that Beverly is almost certain is hope.

_ He has dimples. Did he always have dimples? _

“You know, don’t you?” Beverly asks softly.

Ben’s lips part, but he remains silent. He licks his lips and takes a deep breath.

“Bev, um... I—”

The front door suddenly bangs open, shattering the moment that had settled around the two of them. Richie strides toward the staircase, his shoulders a broken line of tension, his head bowed, and as he reaches the stairs and sees Ben and Beverly sitting there, he doesn’t slow down.

“ _ Move _ ,” Richie says urgently. A half-second later, when neither of them have reacted, he repeats himself: “Move.” He passes up the stairs between them, his hands jammed in his pockets.

Perplexed, Beverly calls after him, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m leaving.”

Beverly slowly rises to her feet as Ben splutters a reply.

“ _ What _ ?” Ben stands, too, gazing after Richie with a look of befuddlement. “Y-You can’t leave, man; we split, we all die!”

Richie pauses and turns to face them. Softly, he says, “Yeah, I’ll take my chances if we’re  gonna die anyway.” Then he continues up the stairs, disappearing around the corner while Beverly and Ben stare helplessly after him.

“Rich!” Ben yells. He stops and turns to Beverly. “Um, I’m  gonna ...” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder, indicating that’s he’s going after Richie, and Beverly nods her understanding. He turns to hurry up the stairs, shouting Richie’s name.

And suddenly, Beverly knows at once what Ben had been about to tell her.

* * *

Eddie rushes up the Town House steps, trying his very best not to think about how disgusting he feels (and, ultimately, not doing an exceptionally good job; the only thing he can think about at the moment is the viscous black vomit drying in a thick layer all over him, and in this state, disgusting is just about the only way he  _ can _ feel).

He had been worried, going down into the basement, that he was going to see his mother. Now, of course, he knows that his mother should have been the  _ least _ of his worries, but he doesn’t fault himself for not knowing that before; how could he have guessed that he was going down there to get  _ vomited on  _ again?

“I hate this stupid fucking town, this place is fucking disgusting, I’m having myself  _ dry cleaned _ as soon as I get home,” he mutters to himself. He wonders, half-seriously, if he can claim emotional distress to get out of fighting the clown, but he almost immediately dismisses the idea. If Eddie can, all of them can, and  _ someone _ has to kill the damn thing before It pukes on someone else.

If he ends up contracting an incurable disease from this shit, though, he is  going to lose his fucking mind.

He throws the doors open, taking little notice of the fact that they slam audibly behind him. The only things on his mind are a shower and a change of clothes, and possibly burning the ones he’s wearing, but he’ll settle for the first two if the third isn’t an option.

“Eddie? That you?” Bev’s voice calls from the stairs.

Eddie grunts, and then, when he feels a little bad for being rude to Bev, he throws his hand up in a short wave and says, “Hi.”

“Oh my god. What happened to you?” As he comes closer, her nose wrinkles and her head bobs back away from him.

“Nothing, I’m fine, everything’s fine,” Eddie replies, rather brusquely, as he passes Beverly on the stairs heading for his room. This time, he can’t really find it in him to feel bad about it; his mind is once again dominated by thoughts of fresh clothes and a shower.

When Eddie gets to his room, he has to rummage around in his pocket for his room key, and he is disgusted to find that the leper’s vomit has soaked straight through his pants – his fingers squelch against the sodden fabric, and he grimaces. Once he has the key, he unlocks the door and goes immediately for the bathroom, deciding that before anything else can be done, his face and hands need to be washed.

He turns both the taps on as high as they’ll go and begins soaping up his hands, scrubbing them furiously.

“This is great. God, what the hell am I  gonna tell my boss when I get back,” Eddie says to himself. “So sorry about the minor mental breakdown, especially the part where I vanished on you when we had that big review coming up, hope you’ll take me back after that because I really have nowhere else to go. What did I do while I was pulling my little disappearing act? Oh, I went back to the home town I never talked about because I didn’t  _ remember it _ , met up with the people I used to pal around with when I was a kid,  y’know . Got attacked by a fucking  _ bat _ from a fortune cookie, had a sexuality crisis, remembered that I don't actually have asthma like I've been told I do since I was, like, fucking _five,_ just the normal things people do on spontaneous vacations.” He begins to rinse the soap off. He notes that there’s gunk under his nails and he begins digging at it desperately, wishing he had thought to bring a pair of tweezers or something – he brought literally everything he cared about enough to take with him, but he didn’t grab tweezers. 

He checks the medicine cabinet to see if there’s anything in there he could use, but the shelves are empty save for a single brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide that’s coated in a thick layer of dust. Eddie swings the door back so that it’s mostly shut, not really caring enough to close it all the way.

“What else? Oh, not much, just got told by one of my old buddies that a fucking monster we thought we killed when we were in middle school and had  _ no memory of _ is back and wants to FUCKING EAT US, and now we have to kill it for real! So, then, I went into the basement in the old pharmacy I spent about half my childhood in, and who should be there but the goddamn leper that terrorised me when I was thirteen fucking years old! Can you believe it?  _ I  _ certainly can’t, and I’m the one  _ living  _ this shitshow!” Eddie can hear the hysteria in his own voice. His hands are clean, now, so he begins to clean his face.

“Oh, and then— _ then _ , the leper, he threw up all over me!” He cups his hands under the faucet and brings up a handful of water, rubbing at his face. Still full of nervous energy, he puts on a (rather weak, if he’s being honest) impression of Mike, and says, “Hey, it’s Mike Hanlon, why  don’tcha come back to Maine!”

(He’s so absorbed in the action of cleaning himself up, ranting furiously as he scrubs his face raw, that he doesn’t notice the other person standing behind him; if he had glanced up to examine his reflection even once while cleaning his face and hands, he would no doubt have screamed until he could scream no more. It is entirely possible that his distraction saves his life... for the time being, at any rate.)

When he finally  _ does _ look up, closing the medicine cabinet, Eddie catches a glimpse of a sinisterly grinning man in the mirror, standing behind him, and he’s frozen by shock, his wide eyes settling on the man’s reflection.

“It’s your time, Eddie,” the man says.

“Huh?” Eddie replies, very articulately, as he whips around to face the intruder, noticing that he has a knife in his hand.

“Teach you to throw rocks,” the man (who is vaguely familiar, and also has a  _ fucking mullet _ , and if Eddie is about to be murdered by a guy with a mullet, he swears he’s going to be so fucking pissed) says, before stabbing Eddie in the face.

Eddie screams.

* * *

Richie’s only thought as he hightails it back to the Town House,  It's fucked up little song still echoing in his ears, is that he needs to leave. He’s not even sure why he showed up in the first place; he hated this fucking town, hated growing up here. The Losers had been the only good things in his young life, and when they started moving away, the official tally of Good Things had gone right back down to zero. The day his parents had packed up and moved them to Chicago had been pretty much the greatest day of his life.

So, yeah, Richie is leaving. That’s what he tells Ben and Bev when he passes them on the stairs, and he doesn’t turn around when he hears Ben shouting his name, doesn’t even slow down until he reaches his room, and even then, that’s just because he has to dig out his key.

Once the door is unlocked and shouldered open, Richie makes a beeline for the foot of the bed, where his bag is sitting, unzipped but still mostly packed. He grabs the case for his glasses from the nightstand and tosses it in before heading for the bathroom to get his toiletries. When he comes back, Ben is standing in the doorway. Richie ignores him, crossing the room and kneeling next to his bag to start stuffing things into it, not caring much where they end up.

“Rich, whatever it is you saw, I know it must’ve been bad, but you  gotta calm down,” Ben says.

Richie drops the small bottle of mouthwash he’s holding into his bag and stands, turning to face Ben.

“Fuck that,” Richie says shortly.

Ben looks pained. “Rich—”

“Fuck you, man! No, I’m not  gonna calm down! I’m  gonna do what I should have done from the very beginning and get the hell out of here as soon as I physically can!” Richie reaches up and knocks his glasses up his nose with the palm of his hand, turning his back on Ben.

Ben sighs wearily. Richie hears him walking, and for a single, hopeful moment he thinks that Ben is giving up, but then he hears the creak of springs as Ben sits down on the bed.

“Listen, Rich,” Ben begins softly, just plaintively enough that Richie pauses. “I know you’re scared. I’m scared, too—”

“Yeah,  _ good _ _!_ You should be!” Richie interrupts.

“—But you need to think about the others, here,” Ben finishes, ignoring  Richie’s outburst.

Richie stiffens, turning to look at Ben. About a dozen half-formed retorts are poised on his tongue, but Ben must realise how his wording came off, because he winces and adds, “I meant Stan and Eddie,” and all the fight goes out of Richie immediately.

“That’s a low blow, Haystack,” Richie says weakly.

It’s no secret that Richie has known Stan the longest out of all the Losers; the minute Richie found someone besides himself who thought that Richie’s bizarre, off-colour Jew jokes were funny (and who also didn’t make of Richie’s teeth or glasses), Richie had practically declared them best friends on the spot. Then, of course, there’s Eddie – and that’s the  _ real _ low blow, using Eddie against Richie. It’s as bad as if Richie has decided to use Bev against Ben, and Richie is positive that Ben knows it, too.

“You know they need you here, Rich,” Ben says. “We  _ all _ need you, but they need you the most. What do you think it’ll do to them if you leave, huh?”

Richie opens his mouth to argue, and closes it as soon as he realises that he can’t. With a sigh, Richie walks around to sit next to Ben on the bed, pushing his glasses up his forehead and rubbing his eyes.

“Fine,” he says finally. “ _ Fine _ , I’ll stay. Are you happy now?”

Ben doesn’t reply. He gives Richie a firm pat on the back before standing, his hand sliding up to squeeze Richie’s shoulder briefly before he starts to leave. He pauses in the doorway, and Richie lets his glasses fall back into place as he looks up at him.

“If you want to talk about it,” Ben says carefully. “I’m here to listen anytime. Because I... I sort of understand, you know?”

Richie thinks, y _ ou don’t, though. You could never understand. No matter how much you think you do. _

Richie says, “I... I know.”

“I love you, Rich.”

Richie swallows past the lump forming in his throat and nods, looking down at his hands. “Love you too, man.”

With that, Ben leaves, closing the door gently behind him.

Richie heaves a deep, ragged breath, and drops his head into his hands. He’s had just about enough emotional vulnerability to last the rest of his life, and he has a sinking feeling he’s not even halfway done – which, honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised if that’s the case. It's just his luck; two decades of avoiding thinking about his feelings, made up for in three days.

He’s torn from his reverie by a scream, and before he can think about it, he’s springing to his feet and striding for the door.

“Eddie?” He calls as he flings the door open. There’s no reply, and his heart leaps into his throat as he runs down the hall to Eddie’s room, almost skidding right past it in his haste. He stops, Bev standing at his side, just in time for the man of the hour to sidle awkwardly out of his room, clinging to the wall.

“Guys, Bowers is in my room,” he says, a dazed look on his face. As soon as he starts talking, blood cascades down his chin from both his mouth and the hole in his cheek, thick and dark. It seeps into his already-filthy shirt, staining the powder blue fabric.

Richie surges forward and gently takes Eddie’s face in his hands before Bev can react, trying to school the shock and terror he knows are written all over his face into some semblance of composure. If nothing else, he has to be strong for Eddie.

“Is it bad?” Eddie whispers, his eyes wide with genuine concern. Richie almost smiles, despite the circumstances.

“You’re okay,” he says, not sure which one of them he’s trying to convince. He says it again, more firmly this time: “You’re  _ okay _ , Spaghetti Man.”

“Rich, what the hell—?” Ben cuts himself off as he takes in the... the fucking  _ knife wound _ in Eddie’s face.

Richie freezes as Eddie’s initial words finally dawn on him. He grits his teeth as he spits, “Fucking  _ Bowers _ ,” and then without even a moment’s consideration, he dashes into Eddie’s room, his entire field of vision going completely red.

The bathroom door is open, so he throws himself over the threshold, ready to kill Bowers with his bare hands, knife or no knife. He’s greeted by a bloodstain on the floor, a missing shower curtain, and a broken window with a bloody handprint on the wall next to it. Richie storms over to the window, bracing a hand on the wall and leaning out. 

To the surprise of absolutely no one, Bowers is standing below in the parking lot, looking shittier than ever. He has a knife through his chest, which is securing a torn green shower curtain to him. He stares up at Richie for a moment, and then he grins wide enough to expose most of his rotten teeth. 

Bowers yanks the knife out, still grinning, and gestures with it up toward Richie. With his free hand, he draws a line across his throat, sending a clear message. 

_ You’re next _ .

* * *

When Bill gets back to the Town House, he spots Stan sitting on the steps, turning something over in his hands. From a distance, he can’t really tell what the object is, just that it’s black and not very big.

“Hey, S-S-Stanley,” Bill calls as he approaches.

Stan looks up, and upon seeing Bill, he quickly tucks the thing he’s holding away and stands up.

“Hey,” he says, looking about as physically and emotionally exhausted as Bill feels. Then, because Stan has always had some kind of sixth sense for things like this, he levels Bill with a weighty gaze and asks, “Are you all right?”

Bill smiles weakly. “I m-muh-mean, I’ve been better, but I’ll be f-fine. You?”

Stan nods, smoothing the front of his cardigan nervously. “About the same, I guess.” He pauses. “I, uh... I realise it looks weird that I was just. Sitting out here, by myself. I’m not flaking out or—or running away, or anything like that. Just... Just thinking.”

Bill bobs his head in reply. He hadn’t been worried that Stan was going to bolt; the thought that he  _ should  _ be worried hasn’t even occurred to him, even though Stan has every reason not to want to face It again (he is, after all, one of the only two Losers who were physically hurt by It, and is the only one who still has the scars from the encounter to this day). Bill knows that when the other Losers need him, Stan can always be depended on to do the right thing.

“I kn-know,” Bill says finally. He goes up the steps to stand next to Stan and claps a hand firmly on his shoulder. “C’mon, leh-het’s go inside.”

Stan smiles, just a little, and they both ascend the steps in tandem. Bill pushes the doors open and leads the way, looking back over his shoulder briefly out of habit more than anything. When he turns back to face the front, he sees someone sitting on the stairs with their head in their hands.

“Ben?” He calls, knowing instinctively that he’s right even before the figure on the stairs looks up and stands. Bill and Stan both pick up the pace when they see Ben’s expression, coming to meet him in front of the stairs.

“Bill, Stan,” Ben says, and he sounds relieved. “I was just wondering where you were.”

Bill looks around, frowning at the noticeable absence of the others. “Where’s everybody eh-else?”

Ben lifts a hand to run through his hair and rub at the back of his neck. “Uh... About that, um—”

Stan steps forward a little, his brows drawn together, his head cocked ever so slightly. “What happened?”

Ben sighs. “Eddie got stabbed.”

“ _ What?” _ Stan and Bill say, in almost perfect unison.

“He was in his bathroom, and we all heard him scream, and when we got up to his  room, he said that Bowers was in it—”

“B-B- _ Bowers _ ?” Bill asks incredulously. “Like...  _ Henry  _ Bowers _ ? _ M-M-Murdered his dad, tried to kill Mike, got  buh -b-blamed for all the clown shit, and was s-sentenced to life in a psychiatric facility?  _ That _ Bowers?”

Ben wrings his hands and nods. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

Stan pushes his hair back from his forehead, looking a little pale. “Shit,” he breathes.

“Yeah,” Ben agrees quietly. “Richie went into the room, right after we found Eddie and he told us about Bowers. Bowers was gone by the time Richie went in after him, but Rich says he saw ‘ im down in the parking lot with his own knife sticking out of his chest, because apparently after he stabbed Eddie, Eddie stabbed him back.”

“Christ,” Bill mutters. “So, I’m guessing R-Rich and Bev are taking care of Eddie’s knife w-wound?”

“ _ Bev  _ is taking care of Eddie’s knife wound,” Ben corrects. “Richie is trying to keep him from losing it.” He pauses for a second, averting his gaze, before looking back at Bill. “He’s scared,  man.”

Bill steps forward and puts a hand on Ben’s shoulder, looking up with as serious an expression as he can muster before pulling Ben into a tight hug.

“We all are,” Ben adds, bringing his hands up to return the embrace.

“I know,” Bill murmurs into his shoulder. “That’s what worries me.”

“Because that’s what It wants,” Ben says knowingly. Bill nods shortly before pulling back, holding Ben at arm’s length.

“We can duh-do this,” Bill says firmly. He shoots a glance at Stan. “ _ All _ of us. But we h- _ have _ to stick together.”

Ben nods slowly and takes a grounding breath. “I know. Thanks, Bill.”

Bill smiles and gives Ben’s shoulder a squeeze. “Right. I th-think we should go check on Eh-Eddie, make sure that he’s n—that he’s n-not freaking out.”

Right on cue, there’s a cry from upstairs: “Because I don’t want to use this  _ shit _ on my  _ face _ when there’s no telling who’s touched it,  _ Richie _ , and that’s not ‘weird’ it’s fucking normal and sane!” There’s a pause, and then, “Just bring me my bag you fucking blockhead!”

A long moment of silence follows the outburst.

“...I think it’s safe to say he’s definitely freaking out,” Stan says wryly.

* * *

Mike sits in his apartment at the library, thinking.

He wonders how the others are doing, if they’ve all found a token yet. He wonders, for the millionth time, if they can actually make this work. He’s not sure – has never really been sure about any of this, to be honest – but he doesn’t think they have any other choice. The ritual was the only thing he could turn up in over twenty years of research that actually seemed like it might  _ work _ _ . _

He looks over at the rock sitting on his desk and sighs. A sudden nervousness overtakes him, accompanied by the acute sensation that he’s being watched. He dismisses the latter as paranoia, but he can’t get rid of the former so easily. The more he thinks about how many things could have gone wrong, the more the feeling grows.

“I should call them,” he mutters. After another moment, he braces his hands on the arms of his chair and stands up, grabbing the legal pad he wrote their numbers on and ambling toward the other side of the room, peering out the open window and breathing in the cool night air. He looks over the pad and, without considering why, he dials Bill without a second thought.

Bill picks up on the third ring, and says, “M-Mike? What’s up?”

“Hey, Bill,” Mike says. “Just checking to see how everyone—”

And then he feels a sharp pain in his back.

A voice behind him says, “Told you to stay  outta my town.”

On the phone, Bill says, “Mike? Are y- yuh -you still there? ...Mike?”

Mike feels a pulling sensation in his back, and then a flood of warmth. He sways for a moment before his knees give out under him, and he collapses to the floor, gasping. Behind and over him, Henry Bowers laughs, and it’s a shrill, cruel, unhinged sound. 

Bowers delivers a sharp kick to Mike’s side and Mike’s body lights up with fresh agony. He groans breathily and attempts to turn onto his side and curl up, but Bowers pins him down with one foot, pressing the heel of his shoe into the wound in Mike’s back. Mike tries to scream, but all that he can manage is a strangled yelp, black spots dancing in his vision. Bowers kicks him again and he feels something in his abdomen snap.

“Of all the little loser fags, I always hated you the most,” Bowers says lowly. There is no sound of footsteps, but after a significant pause, he knows without having to look that Bowers is gone.

The sound of a tinny voice from his phone, which has ended up several feet away from Mike, is the lifeline Mike desperately needs.

Mike summons up all his strength, forcing the pain down, and lifts the collar of his shirt to stuff in his mouth, half-worried that without it he might bite off his tongue. He reaches out with one unsteady hand, braces it on the floor, and sluggishly drags himself forward, closing the gap by inches at a time. He finds the clarity to thank God for the length of his arms and the workout regimen he’s been half keeping up with.

After what feels like an eternity, he manages to get within an arm’s length of his phone, and he drags it toward him, relieved to see that Bill hasn’t hung up. He spits out the collar of his shirt and wheezes into the phone.

“M-Muh-M-M— _ Mike, _ ” Bill says, sounding desperate and harried. “What the he-he—what the  _ hell _ —”

“Bowers,” Mike gasps.

“Fuck.  _ Fuck. _ Okay, I’m  gonna call nine-one-one. Where are you right now?”

“Apartment...” Mike murmurs. He’s starting to lose consciousness; the black spots are now dominating his vision, and when Bill speaks it sounds far away and distorted.

The last thing he hears is Bill saying, “We’re coming, Mikey,  _ p-please _ hold on,” and then everything fades out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT/TRIGGER WARNINGS (SPOILERS):  
\- semi-graphic description of injuries and blood  
\- semi-graphic description of assaults which could be read as hate crimes (straight man attacking one closeted gay man and threatening another, white man attacking a black man)  
\- use of a homophobic slur
> 
> anyway yeah. thats chapter six. as im posting this i have the outline ready for chapter seven, which just may be the end of this story, and will probably be followed by a short epilogue that i also have outlined. assuming i dont go fully unhinged again lol
> 
> after this fic is over, i have a few different ideas for what i wanna do next. i might put some of them in the end note on the next chapter and kinda let you guys decide which one i work on first, and possibly even give me some ideas of your own, if any of you are interested in doing either of those things!


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